


Let me love You (When Your Heart is tired)

by Schattengestalt



Series: Let Me Love You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, FTM Sherlock Holmes, First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Injury, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Relationship Negotiation, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock Holmes, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23228344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattengestalt/pseuds/Schattengestalt
Summary: When John walks out of his life after a horrible argument, Sherlock is devastated. When Moriarty of all people offers him support and companionship, he is intrigued. What kind of game is Moriarty playing this time and what are the rules?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Series: Let Me Love You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814503
Comments: 124
Kudos: 231





	1. The End of Something

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want any readers to be disappointed so I will say it right away: This story is Sheriarty. There won't be any Johnlock in this story. If you don't like this pairing, don't read this story.
> 
> I will write more Johnlock stories in the future, so don't worry. ^^
> 
> This story is completely written, I only need to go through it for edits. I will post a chapter every Friday. That's all. Now enjoy the story and let me know what you think. :)
> 
>  **Edit (13.07.2020)** : The lovely **FlameTurnsBlue** has offered to beta read this story. =D  
> So, if you notice an improvement in the grammar and the overall writing, it's thanks to her. We're doing one chapter at a time therefore it'll be some time until the whole story is beta-read. The plot won't change, of course.^^
> 
> Trigger Warning: Transphobic language!

### The End of Something

He hurt.

It was the first conscious thought that came to his mind upon waking up. Sherlock suppressed a pained groan and instead forced himself to stay completely still and silent. It would not be prudent to give away that he was awake before he’d assessed the situation he was in. In his line of work, there was always the chance that he had been kidnapped, and if that was the case, then he didn't want to show any sign that he was awake too soon.

Sherlock focused all of his senses to concentrate on his surroundings. He was lying down on his back. The softness beneath him suggested that he was lying in a bed. Neither his hands nor his legs were restrained which frankly could be either good or bad. Good because it might mean that he wasn't being held as a prisoner or that he had at least a chance to escape – or bad because it could indicate that his kidnappers didn't believe he was even capable of running away. Judging from the pain that radiated from Sherlock's stomach area that seemed to be a sound assessment. He resisted the temptation to open his eyes and check his abdomen for injuries and instead he surreptitiously sniffed the air. It smelled clean and antiseptic. A hospital, his mind suggested but Sherlock wasn't so easily convinced. There was a real chance that someone like Moriarty had captured him and was trying to confuse him.

"Or maybe you were hurt and you’ve been brought to a hospital to be treated. Don't always try to be clever, Sherlock!"

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes at the annoying voice in his head when a memory surfaced from the depths of his Mind Palace.

Pierson was getting away.

Sherlock ignored John's calls as he chased after the murderer. The case had been a five at most but a chase through the streets of London should at least make it worth his while. Besides if he didn't catch Pierson then no one would – seeing as how Lestrade and his men were probably still standing in the street and staring at thin air. 

Sherlock heard steps behind him and grinned as he realised that at least John had followed him. He knew that he could always rely on his blogger.

Pierson turned into a narrow street that Sherlock knew to be a dead end. A triumphant smirk turned up his lips as he increased his speed to end this chase. Maybe Pierson would still offer resistance. In fact, Sherlock hoped that the young man would try to fight him. It had been ages since he had got the chance to use his martial art skills anywhere other than the dojo.

Sherlock rounded the corner at full speed and realised that he had miscalculated when a piercing pain shot through his middle. His eyes flickered from the knife that was buried to the hilt in his stomach to the triumphant gleam in Pierson's eyes. For a second, Sherlock was stunned while his mind tried to both process the pain and formulate a defence strategy at once. This moment of indecision could have very well been his last if it hadn't been for John.

"You motherfucker!"

Sherlock registered the cracking of bones and screams of pain as John made sure that Pierson wasn't a threat anymore. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would have smiled proudly at John's anger at his behalf but that seemed like too much effort right now. Actually, even standing upright was suddenly too much, let alone keeping his eyes open.

Sherlock felt himself dip forward when his legs buckled from pain - and probably blood loss. There was a scream - different from the ones before - and strong arms and a warm body that kept him from falling to the ground and then... Nothing.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and groaned at the blinding fluorescent lights. He made a mental note to research who had originally had the idea of installing these ghastly lamps in hospital rooms, and to hunt them down if they were still living. 

When his eyes had stopped watering and he was able to see clearly again, Sherlock swiftly took in his surroundings. The room he was in was of medium size. There was a wardrobe to his right and a window on the far wall to his left. Judging from the noise of the street below and how the sun filtered through the thin curtains, Sherlock gathered that it was late afternoon. Considering that they had chased Pierson at night, he calculated that he had spent at least half a day sleeping. It couldn't have been much longer than that, since he was in a normal hospital room and not in the intensive care unit. This also meant that Pierson hadn't managed to stab any major organs; otherwise Sherlock would be in even more pain than he was right now. Or maybe he wouldn't be in any pain at all, as surely they would have given him something stronger than whatever was dripping from the IV bags into his veins at the moment. 

Sherlock glanced at the clear liquid and clenched his teeth as a stab of pain surged through his abdomen. Maybe he could convince a doctor to give him a dose of morphine to dull the pain to a more bearable level. It was either that or leave the hospital in the next hour. After all, if they couldn't give him the good stuff, then there was no use in staying here at all. Not when Sherlock had his own personal doctor at home. John would huff and complain but in the end, he would look after Sherlock. And between John’s doctoring and Mrs. Hudson's cooking Sherlock would make a faster recovery than if he stayed at the hospital for longer than necessary.

Sherlock nodded to himself after he had formulated the argument in his mind. No doctor could say anything against this logic – but if they did, Sherlock could still deduce which nurse they’d had an affair with to get them to discharge him. Just when he had made this decision, voices sounded in front of his door and Sherlock perked up when he recognized John's amongst them. It wouldn’t be long before he would be free to go home.

Sherlock had just enough time to sit up a little straighter before the door burst open and three people walked in. He only spared a brief glance for Lestrade and Sally, and instead focused all of his attention on John. His best friend who... oddly, looked absolutely furious. Sherlock frowned when John marched over to stand beside his bed and glared down at him.

"Tell me this isn't true!"

The crease in Sherlock's forehead deepened even as he forced himself not to flinch away from the pure anger that was radiating in waves off his friend. usually calm blue eyes looked like the sky right before a thunderstorm and the air was charged with tension between them.

"Tell me you didn't lie to me for over a year!"

Sherlock could only stare dumbfounded at his friend. He didn't have the first clue what John was talking about. There was no way - even for him - that he had done anything to warrant this kind of anger from John while he had been sleeping. Besides, John was accusing him of having lied to him since they had moved in together and not of making some nurses cry. While Sherlock admittedly had lied to his friend on occasion, he couldn't think of anything he might have told John upon moving in together that hadn't been true – at least nothing that would make John glare at him like this.

"I don't understand what you are on about," Sherlock said, throwing a confused look at Lestrade. He barely had the time to register the tightened muscles around the DI's eyes that indicated anxiety before John all but exploded.

"You don't know what I am talking about?!" John's hands clenched and unclenched angrily at his sides. "So it's really just some big misunderstanding that your surgeon just told us that you were damn lucky because the knife missed all your major organs and only nicked your uterus?!"

All the colour drained from Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth to reply but no words would come out. He could only helplessly stare at his friend whose eyes had turned to steel.

"So, it's true, then? You pretended to be a man all this time, but you are actually a woman."

Sherlock couldn't suppress his flinch at the accusation and the hateful tone of John's voice. 

"Now John, calm down. Sherlock needs to rest and…" Lestrade tried to defuse the situation but was interrupted by John's angry voice.

"He can rest after I’ve got my answers. Well?"

This last part was directed at Sherlock who had to call on all his remaining strength to meet John's gaze instead of turning his head away. He hadn't wanted to do it this way but his friend didn't leave him any other choice. "I am not a woman. I am a man," he answered, silently congratulating himself on how steady his voice sounded although his insides were quivering with nerves.

Something in John's eyes shifted. Sherlock couldn't exactly place what it was, but they appeared softer all of a sudden. Sherlock’s heart jumped in his chest as he allowed himself to hope that this meant that John would come around, and that his anger had simply stemmed from his initial shock about the revelation.

"You’re intersexual, then?"

The hope died at the simple question as fast as it had started to grow. Sherlock could clearly see how this would play out. There were two options left to him: two paths that each led into completely different futures. He could lie to John, and tell him that yes, he was intersexual. In this case, Sherlock was certain that John would be understanding. His friend would accept that Sherlock had been born with this condition and accept that he had chosen to live as a man. For a second, Sherlock considered going ahead with that lie but quickly thought better of it. It wasn't only that he would have to make up the exact symptoms of his condition - as John would certainly have questions - but also that he didn't want their friendship to be built on a foundation of lies. Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared himself to lose his only friend as he shook his head, and replied, "No, I am transgender."

As Sherlock had predicted, John's eyes grew hard at the admission. "That's a fancy way of saying that you’re a woman playing at being a man."

Sherlock took a deep breath and pressed his lips together into a thin line to keep himself from reacting to the hurtful words. People had hurled much worse insults at him in the past, but this was different because this was John. His friend, whom Sherlock trusted with his life. The one person he had believed accepted him just the way he was. But now... John was looking at Sherlock with such anger and hate that it was hard to believe that they had giggled together at a crime scene not even twenty-four hours ago.

"I am not pretending to be a man. I am one." 

John's harsh laugh cut deeper than Pierson's knife as it twisted directly in Sherlock's heart.  
"No, you certainly aren't a man. A man doesn't have a uterus. You are just a woman who wants to play with the guys – or like Sergeant Donovan has said before: you are a freak."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. Everything in him wanted to throw as many hurtful deductions in John's direction as he could think of, but he realised that he couldn't do that. If he started to speak now, his voice would break and the tears that were just hovering at the edge of his eyes would spill over. And Sherlock refused to cry in front of anyone. When he had started to transition, he had sworn to himself that he would never again give anyone the satisfaction of showing his weakness to them. He wouldn't break this vow now. Nevermind that it felt like someone had sliced him open and ripped his heart out as John smashed their whole friendship to pieces.

John shook his head. "I thought we were friends" John clenched and unclenched his fists, "but..."

"That's quite enough, Doctor Watson!"

Sherlock's head snapped up to see Sally had gripped John's left arm while Lestrade took hold of his other shoulder.

"Yes, that's enough out of you," Lestrade's voice was strained with barely concealed anger as he drew John away from Sherlock's bed. "Get lost!"

John stared in bewilderment at the DI. "But didn't you hear what she..."

"Listen John," Lestrade hissed quietly, "I have always thought you were a good guy, but obviously I was wrong. I won't stand by and listen to you insulting and misgendering Sherlock after everything he has done for you."

"He didn’t do anything…" John started but stopped as Lestrade's grip on his arm tightened. 

"Don't you dare!" Lestrade all but growled. "I might not be as observant as Sherlock, but even I notice when someone is a miserable sod. You were as far down as a man could get when Sherlock found you. He helped you get back on your feet and this is how you thank him? By being a fucking wanker?"

"But... he is a fucking tranny!"

Sherlock flinched at the slur against his will and turned his head away. He had stopped counting how often it had been hurled at him at school and at university, but he was certain that it had never hit him like this. There was no way that he would have survived all these years if every time someone had insulted him, it had felt like this, like someone was crushing his ribcage.

"You!"

A muffled shout followed the exclamation and Sherlock turned his head back towards the scene just in time to deduce that Sally had twisted John's arm a bit more than was truly necessary. He blinked in surprise at the sight, even as Lestrade stopped Sally with a shake of his head before she could cross the line and get herself in trouble.

"You will fuck off now," Lestrade said through gritted teeth as he all but dragged John in the direction of the door. "Go home and pack your things."

"You can't just throw me out of my flat!” John exclaimed, lifting his chin in defiance. “If anyone should go, it should be this little..."

"Don't try my patience, Doctor Watson!" Lestrade's voice was icy cold. "You can do this the easy way, or you can do it with the help of the British Government himself."

Sherlock held his breath as John opened his mouth as if to protest but then snapped it shut and gave a tight nod. The door closed with a bang behind him.

Sherlock sagged back into the pillows and stared at the ceiling, willing away the tears that threatened to fall. Feeling that crying wasn't an option with Sally and Lestrade still in the room, Sherlock forced himself to take deep, measured breaths in order to hold it together for a while longer.

"I’m sorry, Sherlock." Lestrade's hand was a warm and comforting weight on his shoulder as he patted him gently. "When you came out of the operating theatre, John pestered the doctor until she told us how the surgery went and..."

"She informed you that my uterus had been nicked by the knife but that this was the extent of my injury and John…" Sherlock gulped against the lump in his throat, "Reacted accordingly."

"Don't you dare take to heart what he just said,” Lestrade said fiercely. “He is an arsehole and he doesn't deserve you as a friend."

Sherlock's lips quirked up into a bitter smile at that, but he refrained from pointing out to the DI that John had been his only friend. He didn't want to be pitied on top of everything else. Instead, he nodded in the direction of the door, and said, "You should still call Mycroft and let him know that John should be supervised while moving out. I would like my violin and microscope to still be intact when I get home."

Lestrade's expression hardened at that and he hurried out of the room with his phone in hand without another word. Sherlock inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he was grateful for the DI's support, he couldn't stand much more of his sympathy at the moment. His eyes flickered to Sally, who stood casually at the foot of his bed and pretended to inspect her nails. Now there was a small puzzle to solve to keep his mind from focusing on John's betrayal.

"Why did you defend me?” Sherlock asked, propping himself on his elbows and looking at Sally directly. “I would have assumed that you’d love any opportunity to rip me a new one?"

Sherlock saw an expression he hadn’t expected to see – indignance – when Sally lifted her eyes to meet his. "I know that we’ve never seen eye to eye ,” she said flatly, “but I thought that you knew me better than to believe that I would sink so low."

Sherlock felt too drained - both physically and mentally - to do more than raise an eyebrow at her. "You never had any qualms about calling me a freak before."

Sally shrugged at the statement. "Yes, but that’s because you are an arrogant jerk that treats crime- solving like a game and who gets off on playing with serial killers."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest - he didn't get off on the Work - but Sally wasn't finished yet. "I would never call you a freak for being transgender.” She paused, considering. “Actually, it might be the only thing about you that makes you even slightly likeable."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at that. "Because you think of me as a former woman and..."

"Oh come off it, Holmes! For a supposed genius, you’re quite slow today. I say you are a little more likable because you know what it means to belong to a discriminated minority."

Sherlock blinked and then it finally clicked - he really was slow today. "Oh, because you are..."

"Yes, because I am a black woman on the police force who has made it to Sergeant." Sally sighed in exasperation even though the look in her eyes softened. "Look, can we stop this now? If we bang on any more it’ll feel like we’re have a bonding moment or some other such bollocks."

Sherlock felt the corners of his lips turn up in an almost-smile, as he nodded in assent. "I agree; we can't have that." Some of the tension left his body and he relaxed back against the horrible hospital issued pillow. 

Silence fell over the room. If it hadn't been for the constant low-level pain that was coursing through his body, Sherlock might have fallen asleep. The recent events had drained him of more of his energy than he had expected. Maybe if he charmed one of the nurses, he might get a hit of morphine that would allow him to fall asleep.

"You know, you could file a complaint with the NHS against him."

Sherlock forced his eyes open again - he hadn't realised he had closed them - and looked up at Sally who stood with crossed arms at the foot of his bed. "Whom?"

God, but he was slow today. If he at least was on the good painkillers the benefits would compensate for it. As it was, Sherlock was just exhausted enough to be not working at his usual speed but not quite enough to knock him out for a few hours of much needed sleep. This was pure torture. 

Sally didn't comment on how obvious the answer was, although the look in her eyes told Sherlock that it was a close thing. Instead she only sighed and nodded towards the door to his room. "Doctor Watson, of course."

Sherlock snorted and regretted it a second later as more pain flared up in his stomach. "For what? He was only stating what he thought of me." Sherlock hoped that he had managed to keep the hurt and bitterness out of his voice, but from the sympathetic look Sally gave him, he hadn't succeeded. 

"He insulted you and you have two police officers on your side that will back up your statement."

Sherlock swallowed the harsh retort that sprang to his mind when he noticed the earnest expression in Sally's eyes. She was only trying to help him and as much as Sherlock resented any form of sympathy, he wouldn't gain anything from snapping at her. "It would lead to nothing. In the best-case scenario, the people in power would only laugh their arses off before throwing the plaint into the bin. If I was especially unlucky, word about it would get to the media and everyone would suddenly be privy to my gender identity."

Sherlock couldn't help the shudder that ran down his spine at the thought. Everything he had built up in years of hard work would be destroyed overnight if people learned that he was transgender. They wouldn't see the detective in him anymore; they would only focus on his gender identity. Many people would judge and misgender him while just as many would defend him and hail him a brave hero of the transgender community. Every last one of them would only ever focus on his transition and what surgery he had and hadn't had done. No one would care anymore that he had solved dozens of cases or that he had composed his first violin concerto at the age of twelve. All his accomplishments would be overshadowed by the simple fact that he had falsely been assigned female at birth. Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed the horrible thoughts away. It wouldn't come to that. On no account should the public learn of his best kept secret. Ever…

"You aren't factoring John Watson's wrath into this equation of yours," a tiny voice reminded him, "He doesn't just feel betrayed, but he also believes that his anger is righteous. He could look for a way to get back at you."

Sherlock gaped as if someone had punched him where he’d been stabbed. How could he have forgotten?! John's stupid blog had at least two thousand followers - if not more. One post from him in which he revealed what he had learned about Sherlock would be enough to make the news spread like wildfire. 

"Holmes?" Sally's face came into view as she leaned over him. "Are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out."

"No, I... John's blog." Sherlock knew that he wasn't making much sense as he pressed the words out while simultaneously trying to calm his racing heart. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body. Somehow, though, Sally seemed to get what he was on about as understanding entered her eyes before they turned to steel. Perhaps I should give her more credit in the future, Sherlock thought to himself.

"I’m sure Greg has already thought of that, but I will let him know – just to be on the safe side." She turned to leave but then halted in front of the door and looked back at him over her shoulder. "If this fucker outs you to the whole world I will personally pile up as many complaints against him as possible."

Sherlock smiled weakly at that but nodded. "Thank you, Sergeant."

Sally's eyebrows lifted slightly before she nodded back at him. "You're welcome, Holmes."

Sherlock waited until the door had closed behind her and only then allowed his face to crumple and his tears to fall as he was truly left alone with his sorrow and pain.


	2. Nightly Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next chapter and Moriarty finally makes an appearance. Let me know what you think. :)
> 
> **Edit (28.07.2020)** : This chapter has been beta-read by the amazing **FlameTurnsBlue**. So, if you've read this part before, you'll certainly notice a vast improvement. :)

### Nightly Visit

Bored - SH

Sherlock stared at the message he had typed about five minutes ago but hadn't sent to anyone.  
"Because there is no one you could send it to," The voice in his Mind Palace was definitely mocking him.

Sherlock stared at the word, feeling adrift. Previously, when he’d been stuck at the hospital, he would have sent this message to John but... that wasn't possible anymore. His former friend had cut all ties with him, which included blocking Sherlock's number.

"It's a wonder that he managed to figure out how to do that on his own," Sherlock spoke to the shadows in the dark room.

It had hurt to get the notification that his message couldn't be delivered, but it had probably been for the best. Sherlock didn't even want to imagine what John would have written back in reply to his pathetic words. He scrolled through the texts on his phone and stared at the message that had never reached its recipient:

Let's not throw away our friendship like this. We can work it out. Don't leave 221b. - SH

Pathetic!

Sherlock turned off his phone and put it on his nightstand before he could throw it away in disgust. It was for the better that John had never seen this message, or he would have laughed his arse off. The great Sherlock Holmes begging his only friend to remain by his side even after said friend had launched as many transphobic slurs at him as possible.

"He would have hit you as well if you hadn't been at the hospital and you two had been alone."

The pinched lines of John's face and his clenched hands reappeared in Sherlock's mind as he assessed the probability. John most likely would have hit him if he had found out about him when they had been at home. But that wasn't even the worst part. No, the most terrifying aspect was that Sherlock knew that he would have let it happen. He would have allowed John to beat him up for being transgender because... because...

"Because he was the only friend you had, and if it had taken a beating to keep him around you would have taken it."

Sherlock turned his head to the side on the pillow and pressed his eyes shut against the tears that prickled behind his eyelids as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. God help him, but it was true. He would have allowed John to beat him bloody if it had meant that he got to keep him around. And maybe that would have been enough for his former friend to let go of his anger and his false sense of betrayal and continue their cohabitation and friendship. Or perhaps it wouldn't have been enough, but John might have still stayed and merely taken every chance he got to attack Sherlock. It wouldn't have always been physical. No, John was also very adept at lashing out verbally. There would have been hurtful digs at his gender identity either masked as jokes or simply cast in his direction with righteous anger. And on the nights when John had had a drink too many, his fists would have followed his words.

Sherlock inhaled slowly and hated himself for the choked sob that fell from his lips a second later. He should be grateful, he told himself, that the whole episode had played out like this. Otherwise he could have ended up in the kind of abusive relationship he had always scoffed at. Whenever Sherlock had worked on a case of domestic abuse – the kind that had involved two consenting adults - he hadn't understood why the victim hadn't simply left. He realized now that it wasn't always so simple. In his case, it would have taken Mycroft to “vanish” John to get Sherlock away from him, if it had escalated to that point.

"I wonder what I would owe him for that," Sherlock spoke aloud to defuse the tension he had built with his own thoughts. "I calculate that I’m already three boring cases in debt for his help today."

Tapping. Slow, perfectly measured breathing. The added tap of a leather shoe on the ground. Sherlock groaned in annoyance and kept his eyes closed even as he came fully awake.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"That's not an option, brother mine. Believe me when I tell you that I had more appealing plans than visiting you at a hospital."

"Feel free to go back to starting your next war anytime." Sherlock finally opened his eyes and smirked weakly at his brother. "It's what you always do when another one of your diets hasn't worked after all."

"Stop being childish." Mycroft shook his head, and to Sherlock's utter confusion, he sat down in one of the hospital chairs next to his bed without so much as sneering at the uncomfortable furniture. When he looked closer at his brother - and really observed him - Sherlock also noticed the faint pleats in Mycroft's tie where there shouldn't be any: a sure indicator that his brother had stroked his tie numerous times during the last couple of hours, which spoke of great stress. In combination with the worried lines on his face and the simple fact that Mycroft was currently sitting next to him instead of overthrowing another country’s government, this could only point to one conclusion: His brother was worried about him.

Sherlock swallowed at the realisation. The last time Mycroft had looked like this had been after Sherlock's last overdose, almost five years ago. Even the incident at the pool with Moriarty hadn’t seemed to worry Mycroft overmuch.

Sherlock had already deduced why this situation was different, but thinking on it only brought back the memory of John's hurtful words, which he didn’t wish to dwell on. Obvious, really: Mycroft wouldn't visit in person if Sherlock had only suffered some minor injury. The falling-out with John, therefore, had to be what had brought him here.

"I’m fine," Sherlock murmured to prevent Mycroft from asking about his wellbeing, but his brother only sighed in reply.

"Physically,” Mycroft sighed, “I know that you are fine, but otherwise..."

"It's not the first time someone decided they didn't want to associate with me anymore after they found out that the doctors had checked the box for female on my birth certificate," Sherlock said, as blandly as he could.

"No,” Mycroft assented, “but it's the first time that this person had become an integral part of your life beforehand."

Sherlock shrugged and tried to override the tremor in his voice. "It doesn't matter. John wasn't of much help on my cases anyway."

"I am not speaking about your cases. We both know that Doctor Watson has become essential to you in more ways than one. I warned you against getting involved, but..."

"Yes, yes, I wouldn't listen to you and now you have been proven right yet again." Sherlock waved Mycroft's words away with his hand. "Have you finished gloating yet, or do you need some more time to savour the moment?!"

Sherlock knew that he was being unfair -– he knew it even before Mycroft's face fell briefly before he re-arranged his features into a mask of calm - but he couldn't deal with it right now. He couldn’t deal with his brother's well-meaning advice or with his worry. He had barely managed to make it through the pat on the shoulder from Lestrade and Sally's encouraging smile without breaking down into tears. Sherlock doubted that he would be as lucky if Mycroft pushed their usual rivalry aside and tried to comfort him. There was still enough pain and tears left in Sherlock - even after he had cried himself to sleep a couple of hours ago - to make such an endeavour extremely awkward for the both of them.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face as something soft flashed through Mycroft's eyes before he gave a tiny nod and then leaned forward on his umbrella to fall back into his usual role. "I only came here to inform you that Doctor Watson has vacated Baker Street and has checked into a hotel for the time being. None of your belongings have been damaged and you don't have to fear any… revealing blog posts from him. It has been made clear to him that such a post would have dire consequences for him."

"He might not care about that," Sherlock pointed out to his brother before it occurred to him that Mycroft had factored in John's disregard for threats as well.

"His blog will also be monitored by my people. Any post will have to be approved by them first before it can appear on his blog." Mycroft got up from the chair. "Now, if you will excuse me,. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister to attend."

"The Prime Minister of which country?"

Mycroft's only reply was a smirk as he strode towards the door. Sherlock felt the sudden inexplicable need to say something to let Mycroft know that his help was appreciated. It was a surprising urge and Sherlock could think of very few phrases that could accurately convey his feelings. Finally, he bit out, "Thank you."

Mycroft halted with his hand on the door handle and turned his head to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. "Don't thank me just yet. There are three cases that are waiting for you to solve when you have recovered."

They shared a look - Mycroft's lips twitched and Sherlock rolled his eyes - and then the door was opened and closed again. Sherlock leaned back in the bed and stared at the plain white wall of his room. It was supposed to be calming. He wished he had a gun to shoot it.

Sherlock reached for his phone again and sucked in a sharp breath when the movement sent a stab of pain through his abdomen. It was probably sensible to stay at the hospital for a couple more days, although Sherlock would never admit that out loud. No, he would rather pester the doctors and nurses to let him go first thing in the morning rather than admit that he needed some time to recover. Considering that Mycroft had spoken with the hospital administration, there was certainly no risk of Sherlock being sent home sooner than was safe for him to go, no matter how often he deduced the nurses and their boring affairs. Nevertheless, it would probably be wise to keep his most cutting deductions to himself. In the past, John had charmed the nurses into forgiving Sherlock but seeing as his friend... former friend wasn't around anymore...

Sherlock stabbed the display of his phone aggressively with his finger as another wave of tears threatened to spill over his cheeks. He had decided he was done with crying, but his transport clearly hadn't got the message yet.

Sherlock browsed the internet for a bit until he finally gave into his curiosity and checked John's blog. There was a new, albeit short, post. Sherlock forced himself to read it slowly and carefully, even though his heart was leaping into his throat the whole time.

I know that this isn't my usual kind of post so don't expect a story about Sherlock's latest case here. In fact, don't expect me to post anything about his work here ever again. 

There, that's what I wanted to tell you all about: Sherlock and I are done. I have moved out of our shared flat today and I won't work on cases with him anymore. Our friendship - and that's all there ever was for the ones of you who like to think otherwise - is officially over. Don't bother to ask me why. It's between him and I and really none of your business. Feel free to unsubscribe from this blog but don't bother me with inane questions.

On a side note, if anyone knows of a cheap flat for rent or someone looking for a flatmate let me know. I am currently staying at a hotel.

Cheers

John had doubtlessly had to edit the post numerous times before Mycroft's people had allowed him to upload it. There was too little anger radiating from between the lines for it to be John's first draft.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the comments section, but he decided against reading through it. He was certain that he would find questions posted by Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Molly, Stamford and other followers. There would also be speculations as to what had happened to damage their friendship beyond repair. Sherlock didn't fancy reading how he was certainly to blame for the falling-out – not when it wasn't true.

"But it's true in a way at least," a well-known voice pointed out in his Mind Palace. He tried to ignore it and what it was implying like he had done all day long, but it was in vain. Alone in his bed at night with nothing to do to stimulate his mind, the whispering in his head was too loud to ignore.

"If you had just continued to live as a woman, then this wouldn't have happened."

No, Sherlock countered silently, gnashing his teeth, it wouldn't have happened because he would have never met John. His body would be rotting away in the family tomb by now because he would have killed himself years ago. There was no way that he would have endured being perceived as a woman any longer than he already had. 

"If you wanted to be a man so badly, then why didn't you transition completely?"

Sherlock rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, itching for a cigarette, that he knew, he couldn't have. As far as he was concerned, he had transitioned completely. He had got rid of his breasts and - thanks to the testosterone - his unnecessary menstruations. There was nothing else he needed to be done in order to feel comfortable in his body. He was the man he had always known himself to be.

"If you feel comfortable as a man while still having a uterus and a vagina, then you can't be a real man. You are just a freak who craves attention. If you were really a man, you would have gotten your uterus removed and undergone bottom-surgery. As it is, you are nothing more than a walking freak show."

"That's not true," Sherlock pressed the words out through gritted teeth even as his fingernails dug painfully into the heel of his hands.

"If it's not true, then why didn't you tell John sooner? And why haven't you sought out a sexual relationship with anyone since university even though you have been interested in a few men since then?!"

"I am married to my work," Sherlock insisted loudly, to drown out the hateful voices in his head. He clutched his right hand with his left one on top of the covers to stop himself from starting to scratch at his thighs or in other places that would be even more painful. He was past this. Past the years of self-hatred and self-harm. He was who he was, and if some people couldn't accept that, well, it was their problem and not his.

"Then why are you still ashamed of how you look? If you are so comfortable in your body, then why don't you dare to show it to someone else?"

"Because it never ends well." Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the pain that radiated from his right arm where his fingernails had started to scratch at the skin. He knew, that he couldn't risk hurting himself too badly, or even the most incompetent nurse would notice the clear signs of self-harm and that would certainly prevent him, from leaving the hospital, as soon as possible. That knowledge, was the only thing that kept him from tearing the skin from his arm, although he would prefer having the skin hang from his arm, in bloody scraps to recalling the moment when he had decided to turn his back on sexual relationships. The pain, of his fingernails digging into his arm, wasn't enough to hold the memories at bay, Sherlock realised when Victor's face swam into focus in his Mind Palace.

If he didn't find a distraction soon, then he would fall down the rabbit hole of memories filled with all the hate and pain that had been launched in his direction for who he was. And Sherlock didn't want that. He would not even entertain the idea of reliving the hell that had been his years at school and university for him. But it appeared that his mind wasn't giving him any choice. If only he had access to morphine, or any other opiate-based drugs, to allow himself to drift away into numbness. It was the only thing that had ever quieted his mind – except for the Work, of course. Considering that it would be much more difficult to find an interesting case at the hospital than it would be to get his hands onto drugs, Sherlock's choice was obvious.

He sat up and was just about to muster the strength required to get out of bed when the door to his room opened and then closed again quietly before Sherlock got the chance to see who it was. It couldn't be a doctor or a nurse, Sherlock knew immediately. They would have turned on the light and announced what they wanted, rather than creeping through the room until they were standing next to his bed.

"My, my! Shouldn't you be asleep like a good boy?!"

A surge of adrenalin raced through Sherlock's body t upon hearing the voice with the distinctive Irish accent. He fumbled for the light switch of the lamp on his nightstand and both men groaned when it was switched on.

"I always knew that you had a cruel streak but that was really unnecessary, my dear."

Sherlock blinked against the harsh light of the lamp and then stared at his visitor. This time he had forgone his Westwood suit in exchange for a blue button-down, jeans and a lab coat. He even wore a stethoscope slung around his neck like a doctor from a cheap TV show.

"Nice touch, isn't it?" Moriarty pointed to his stethoscope and sat down in the chair that Mycroft had occupied only hours ago. "It's terrifying how easy it is to pass as a doctor these days. People only see what they want to see. I was asked to check three patients on my way to you. Otherwise I would have arrived sooner. My apologies." 

Moriarty put an apologetic look on his face that wouldn't have fooled a toddler and Sherlock finally managed to do more than simply stare at the criminal mastermind in disbelief. He pulled the covers back up but remained in a sitting position with his back supported by a pillow. At least this way he didn't feel as vulnerable as he had when sitting on the edge of the bed, with his bare legs dangling over the ground. His mind whirled with potential reasons for Moriarty being here.

"What do you want?" he managed finally.

Sherlock did his best to keep his nemesis in his line of sight while eyeing the bags on his IV pole. Moriarty saw this and sighed in mock exasperation. "Really, Sherlock? You believe that I would go to the effort to come see you just to poison you? Although," Moriarty glanced up at the IV bag, "If I had known that they had you on such weak painkillers I would have brought you something better."

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest and did his best to appear aloof and unfazed. Which was not an easy task while sitting, defenceless, in a hospital bed with only the covers as a shield between Moriarty and himself.

"Is it so hard to believe that I only want to make sure that you are alright?" Moriarty gave him his best, innocent puppy eyes and Sherlock's lips twitched upwards against his will, even as he tried to mask his amusement with a snort.

"If that was your intention, you would have come during visiting hours,." Sherlock offered in reply, still trying to gauge Moriarty’s true motives in his head.

"And risk the wrath of big brother?! I don't think so." Moriarty gave him a genuine “surely you know better” look, and Sherlock’s calculations shifted slightly in his head.

"How do you know that Mycroft isn't on his way right now?" It was an earnest question, considering that Sherlock would have expected his brother to have picked up on his unwelcome visitor through surveillance already.

"Frankly, because there may have been a minor incident in New Zealand, but I don't want to bore you with politics." Moriarty propped his elbows up on his legs and leaned forward to look more closely at Sherlock. "How are you?"

The question sounded sincere enough to leave Sherlock stunned for a second before he caught himself and shrugged. "As fine as can be expected after getting stabbed in the abdomen."

Sherlock was certain that Moriarty already knew about the nature of his injury, so there was no use in pretending otherwise. If he did it would only arouse Moriarty's curiosity and the last thing Sherlock wanted was for the criminal mastermind to learn that he was transgender.

"So, you are well enough to plan your revenge on the good Doctor, then?" the question had a flavour of amusement, but Sherlock detected something more sinister underneath.

It was a statement rather than a question but Sherlock still shook his head in disbelief. "Why should I take revenge on John?"

Moriarty smiled, but it could do nothing to mask the hard look in his eyes. "If a pet isn't loyal, it must be punished. And yours didn't only run away from you, but he betrayed you in other ways as well."

Sherlock's blood ran cold and all the colour drained from his face as he stared at Moriarty. "I don't know what you mean." The words came out as a pathetic stutter, but Sherlock couldn't help it, as his dread was rising. If Moriarty had figured out that he was transgender, then there would be nothing even his brother could do to stop the criminal mastermind from outing him somehow, unless...

"What do you want?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock imagined that worry was mirrored in his dark eyes when their gazes met before it vanished with the shake of a head. 

"You aren't making much sense, Sherlock. Maybe your painkillers are stronger than I assumed at first." Moriarty eyed the IV like he was trying to read the labels on the bags.

"Stop it! I am not in the mood for playing games. Just tell me what your price is." There was only a slight tremble in his voice as he directed his command at Moriarty, and Sherlock congratulated himself for it.

"It really depends on what you want." Moriarty pursed his lips as if deep in thought. "If you have changed your mind about John, it’ll be on me. Doesn't matter if you only want him roughed up a little or tortured and killed, it's all the same to me, really. Now, if we are talking about something else, it really depends on..."

"How much for your silence?" Sherlock demanded.

"My… silence?" Moriarty’s brows drew together, questioning.

Moriarty was apparently a better actor than Sherlock had given him credit for, because he looked convincingly confused at the request. Any other time Sherlock would have marvelled at his skills, but right now he was on edge and not in the mood for the consulting criminal’s games. Even if that meant that Sherlock was not in the right frame of mind to negotiate the best deal for himself. As it was, he was possibly overreacting, but Sherlock knew himself well enough to understand that he wouldn't be able to withstand the backlash of the public finding out that he was transgender. He just wasn't strong enough.

"For you to keep it to yourself that I am transgender," Sherlock forced himself to say when Moriarty remained silent. "God, you must have been thrilled to get your hands on this information."

Something complicated passed over Moriarty's features before all emotions were replaced by a lazy grin. "Oh yes, I certainly was thrilled when I learned about your secret. That was about…" Moriarty frowned slightly and counted on his fingers before he nodded, "Eighteen years ago. I don't see why you bring it up now, though."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again with a click when Moriarty's words sank in. Eighteen years ago, he had been fourteen and had just taken the first steps to becoming himself by coming out to his - thankfully accepting - family. How could Moriarty have known for so long? How could he have gathered that information back then.

"You are lying,” Sherlock said, testing him.

"Not right now, I’m not." Moriarty chuckled quietly and something like fondness flickered in his eyes before it vanished again. "The first time I looked you up was when I heard about a child asking questions about Carl Powers’ shoes. It was thrilling and humbling all at once to realise that someone was clever enough to at least suspect something." A faraway look entered Moriarty's eyes before it was replaced by an easy grin once more. "I decided to keep tabs on the little girl who appeared to be so promising. Imagine my wonder when I checked in on little Cressida two years later only to find out that he was actually a boy going by the name of Sherlock now. I watched you from the shadows for years, and..."

"You must have been extremely disappointed then." Sherlock turned his head away to stare at the ceiling. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel. On the one hand, it didn't look like Moriarty was going to out him, not if he had held and sat on this information for almost two decades. But then again, there were no guarantees when it came to the criminal mastermind. Sherlock shuddered at the idea that Moriarty had been watching him for so many years – not because it meant that Moriarty had had his sights on him for so long, but because he had been privy to some of the most horrible and pathetic moments of Sherlock's life. Moments that he would rather delete for good.

"Disappointed?!" Sherlock's head snapped back to Moriarty, who looked now like he feared for Sherlock's sanity. "No, Sherlock. I was awed. While I built my whole network from scratch, you built yourself from scratch. It was utterly satisfying to watch the smart little boy grow into a clever young man. No matter how often these ordinary people tried to slap you down, you always got back up and continued fighting." Moriarty clapped his hands together in undisguised joy. "You were like a force of nature: Unstoppable! And then you even became a consulting detective and started to get in my way. I would have died from boredom without you. Absolute perfection."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty in disbelief. No one had ever told him that they were proud of who he had become. As far as he knew, most people would have preferred he didn't exist at all, while others kept reminding him of all the mistakes he had made along the way, up until today. Surely Moriarty was just pulling his leg now, and...

"Don't throw me in together with ordinary people." Disdain dripped from Moriarty's tone when he interpreted the expression on Sherlock's face correctly. "I am not like your stupid little pet. He should have been eternally grateful that you adopted him, and instead he ran away because you didn't live up to his expectations. As if a mighty tiger would ever bow down to a little rat."

Sherlock swallowed down the reflex to defend John. A part of him wanted to remind Moriarty of how John had offered to die for Sherlock at the pool, but this act of loyalty paled in the face of how John had treated him mere hours ago. 

"So, you won't tell anyone then?" Sherlock thought it was best to make sure. Besides, this topic would shift the focus away from John. As much as John’s actions had hurt Sherlock, he didn't want Moriarty to get it into his head to take some kind of revenge on his former friend.

Moriarty rolled his eyes at him - probably to show that he had noticed why Sherlock had changed the topic - and then had the audacity to wink at him. "Not my place to tell, Honey. It's much sweeter if it's a secret between us two anyway."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and remind his nemesis that he wasn't the only one to know about his secret – before he thought better of it. After all, who was to say that Moriarty wouldn't get it into his head that no one else should be privy to this information about Sherlock? He could decide to kill everyone who...

"Oh please, Sherlock, don't be boring!" Moriarty huffed out a laugh and leaned back in his chair like he was lounging around on a sofa. "There is no reason for me to kill your family or the dear DI and his Sergeant or sweet Molly Hooper. I am an international operating businessman, not a bloodthirsty madman."

"Where is the difference?!" Sherlock countered before he could think better of it. His eyes widened in shock at what he had just done. God, but for a second here he had forgotten who he was talking to. It didn't matter that Moriarty had complimented him; he still wasn't his friend or colleague. In fact, he was Sherlock's biggest enemy and the head of one of the largest criminal organisations in history. Being his usual unfiltered snide self to the Napoleon of crime while confined to a hospital bed was probably not the best move.

"Too true." Moriarty's laugh startled Sherlock out of his panicking thoughts. Sherlock caught a glimpse of pure mirth sparkling in dark eyes before it was quenched once more, and the unmoving mask was back into place.

"Now, you will excuse me," Moriarty got up from his chair and smoothed his coat out like it was a bespoke suit, "I have other patients to look after."

And then, to Sherlock's absolute bewilderment, Moriarty gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Take care, Sherlock. We will play again, soon."

"Better prepare yourself to lose then, Moriarty," Sherlock managed to retort without his voice cracking, despite his sudden breathlessness. His whole body was still focused on the place where a warm hand had been only seconds ago.

The criminal mastermind stopped in front of the door and turned back towards Sherlock. "It's James for you." And with these parting words and a wink, he was gone.

Sherlock was left to stare at the closed door for what felt like ages while he tried to make sense of this whole, strange visit. In the end, he drifted to sleep puzzling over the mystery that was one James Moriarty and with the pain in his abdomen all but forgotten.


	3. New Motivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to see a bit more of Moriarty in this chapter. Let me know how you liked it. Stay safe! :)
> 
> **Edit (27.09.2020):** An edited version of this chapter is up now. Many thanks to **FlameTurnsBlue** for doing such an amazing work. Any and all improvements, you might notice, are her doing. =)

### New Motivation

"We really need your help with this case." Lestrade’s voice was beseeching, but Sherlock was unmoved. He was finally back home, and he had no intention of leaving again any time soon.

“You always need my help,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I wonder how anyone at New Scotland Yard manages to stay employed, as it seems you can't even solve so much as a single case on your own."

Lestrade huffed in annoyance, but he didn't leave, as Sherlock had hoped he would. Either the case was as complicated as the DI made it out to be or – and this was more likely - Mycroft had sent Lestrade to bother him. Why could his older brother never mind his own business?

Sherlock rolled onto his back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, completely ignoring Lestrade's attempts to interest him in the case. He’d only been home from the hospital for ten days. If someone else – anyone else, really – had been stabbed in the abdomen, everybody would understand if they took a few weeks to recover at home before they went back to work. Especially if said work entailed a lot of physical labour (the “legwork” his brother so despised but that Sherlock really quite enjoyed). Apparently when it came to Sherlock Holmes, though, everybody expected him to get right back to solving cases - or to doing experiments... or to playing the violin, like some kind of automaton.

Mrs. Hudson had even had the audacity to complain the other day about the absence of music or explosions upstairs. She’d argued that if she could hear what he was up to, then she was forewarned, but that it was too nerve-wracking if there were no noises to give her a clue as to what to expect when she went upstairs. Sherlock had pointed out to his landlady that no warning was really needed, seeing as he’d been lying in the same position on the couch the last six times she had come upstairs. Each time she’d found him stationary on the sofa, she’d used the opportunity to nag him about working cases again. And when she wasn't doing that, she was haranguing him to eat or drink or shower. It was annoying. Still, Sherlock could tune out Mrs. Hudson for the most part. But now Lestrade was pestering him, too. It was all so dull.

Sherlock glanced over at the DI who was waving a police file at his eye level like he was trying to get the attention of a dog with a toy. For a second, he considered reaching for his phone and pretending to be busy, but then he thought better of it. If he opened his phone, he would only find dozens of new messages from Molly, ranging from invitations for coffee over offerings of fresh eyeballs to beating a new corpse with a riding crop. While Sherlock would have normally appreciated all of them, the sheer number of messages and the sentiment they indicated (was it “pity”?) vexed him. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone for once?!

Even Mummy had called and asked him if he’d like to spend a weekend at the cottage. Of course, Sherlock had declined the offer at the time, but now he was reconsidering it. Escaping London for a bit would shake off Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and perhaps they would also finally believe him when he assured them that he was fine. It was true that Mummy would insist on regular meals, but she would leave him alone during the day. At least, that was how it had always been when he was young. Still, if Mycroft had said something to Mummy - which was likely - then she might badger him about doing something productive as well. Sherlock realized suddenly that he would rather deal with Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson all at once, rather than try to fight off Mummy in one of her “caring” moods. His eyes flicked back over to Lestrade, whose mouth was still moving.

Lestrade stopped mid-sentence, chagrined. "You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

Sherlock noted internally that Lestrade's tone had changed from pleading to exasperated. This was a good sign, indicating that he was finally about to give up.

"No,” he admitted, looking at the ceiling again. “I didn't."

"Fine," Lestrade sniffed and snatched his coat from the backrest of the armchair. "But don't come whinging to me about how you need cases, when you get bored again."

Sherlock snorted but offered no further answer to Lestrade. He heard the door to the flat close, and then footsteps on the stairs. One - two - three...

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he heard Mrs. Hudson's fond voice say, and he promptly turned his head and jammed the Union Jack pillow over it. Of course his landlady would intercept Lestrade on his way outside to get a progress report from him. No doubt she would also warm up the casserole she had prepared this morning to have an excuse to come upstairs today. So, Sherlock calculated, he could expect another visit from her in approximately one to two hours, depending on how long Lestrade stayed. He could smell that Mrs. Hudson had baked scones about an hour ago, and if Lestrade wasn't expected back at the Yard today and lingered in 221a, it might be closer to two hours before Sherlock would be pestered to eat something again.

Sherlock looked down at the carpet and the various stains that stippled it. They told a story of various nights spent eating take-away, of spilled wine and tea and even blood. All in all, they told the story of two people who had lived a life together in this very flat. A story of friends who hadn't only shared living space, but that had also worked together. Two friends that... weren't friends any longer.

Sherlock's eyes wandered to the red armchair and then to the folder that was strategically placed on the coffee table. A part of him wanted to look through the files and find all the clues that the incompetent Met police had missed, but... a larger part of him didn't want to get up at all. It was the same when it came to conducting experiments, playing the violin, or paying a visit to the morgue; all these options still held a certain appeal to Sherlock, but they all involved getting up and focusing on a task. Even the mere thought of all the preliminaries these activities would entail was exhausting. If he got up, then he would need to shower and get dressed. Afterwards, he would need to eat something if he didn't want to risk passing out after days of lying around on the couch without more than a few biscuits for fuel. Then, of course, he would also need to drink tea. Normally John would have made the tea, but now Sherlock would either have to brew it himself, or ask Mrs. Hudson for a cup. If all of this was accomplished, Sherlock would finally be free to go out and do something. It was all too daunting, he concluded. Getting up wasn't worth the effort.

"You thought differently not so long ago," a voice in his Mind Palace pointed out to him.

"Times change," Sherlock spoke to the coffee table. When he had first arrived home, he’d tried to use the skull as a sounding board again, but it hadn't worked out. Therefore, he now contented himself with speaking to the empty room at large. 

"You could just admit to yourself that you miss him, you know?"

Sherlock tried to laugh at this sentiment, but it came out bitter and humourless. "I don't miss him at all."

"No? Then why do you keep glancing at his armchair or at the staircase that leads up to the second bedroom? Why do you start speaking to him sometimes before you realise that he isn't at the flat, and never will be again, before your face falls completely? Why can't you get used to the quiet? Why do you keep listening for footsteps upstairs?"

"Fine,” he conceded. “I got used to having someone around. It's natural that it would take time to adapt to living alone again."

"That's no reason not to go on cases anymore."

Sherlock sighed. He couldn’t argue against this point, as it was quite logical and he himself had made it. It was impossible to win an argument against one's self. He was aware, deep down, that he did miss John. Before everything had gone to the dogs, they had been great friends, flatmates and partners. Yes, they had argued on occasion, and at times Sherlock had blown things up to calm himself down while John had gone down to the pub for a few pints, but otherwise, they’d been good together. Maybe if their friendship had disintegrated over time, then it would have been easier to let go. If Sherlock’s memory had held a huge number of bad memories of John to choose from and replay, then his loss wouldn't weigh so heavily. What was hardest was the knowledge that they would still have this friendship if only Pierson hadn't stabbed Sherlock, or if the doctor hadn't told John about the details of the injury.

"A friendship based on false assumptions with a transphobic arsehole, don't forget that." The voice sounded more like Mycroft than ever as it delivered these words .

He couldn’t forget. There was no way that he could fool himself into believing that he could ever be friends with John again after what had taken place at the hospital. That didn't change the fact that their friendship - while it had lasted - had been real for Sherlock, including all the emotions that came with it. There was no easy way of just deleting the last year from his Mind Palace and going on with his life like he had before.

"There’s no need to delete everything. Just move past this whole episode and go on with your life."

"It's not that easy," Sherlock shook his head. God, and it wasn't. If it had been, Sherlock definitely would have done it already, but as it was... He groaned when he noticed that his thoughts were starting to go in circles again, and he hadn’t the power to bring them to a halt. Maybe it was time to go hunting for his emergency stash in the flat. The drugs would allow him a respite from his own thoughts and feelings, and hopefully he would be back to normal after they’d worn off. Sherlock was just contemplating getting up to search when steps sounded on the staircase. They were slow, measured steps, he discerned, so it was probably Mrs. Hudson with a casserole again. He didn’t feel mentally ready for yet another onslaught of his landlady’s cheerfulness.

Sherlock turned his back to the room and hid his face against the backrest of the couch when he heard the door to the flat pushed open.

"I am not interested in your zucchini-potato casserole," Sherlock declared, his voice slightly muffled by the sofa.

"It’s a good thing that I didn't bring any, then."

Sherlock's heart gave a start at hearing the smooth voice with the Irish accent. Slowly, he turned his head to peek over his shoulder to get a visual confirmation that it really was Moriarty, who was now leaning against his armchair in an expensive suit and with a lazy smirk on his lips.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock kept a carefully neutral expression in place as he got up from the couch and tied his dressing gown. The criminal mastermind had a clear superiority in attire at present, but Sherlock wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of showing his discomfort about it. It was his flat, and he was allowed to walk around in nothing but his pyjamas and a dressing gown if he so chose. 

"I told you to call me James... or Jim if you prefer." Dark eyes flickered over Sherlock. "I came here to check up on you after you didn't accept any of my invitations to come out and play." Moriarty pulled the corners of his lips down in a ridiculous mock-frowny face

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and was just about to open his mouth to respond when he recalled the cases that Lestrade had bothered him with – if Moriarty was behind them, then they might actually be challenging, and thus, interesting.

"I… was busy." Great, Sherlock thought, now he was making excuses to Moriarty about not solving his crimes.

"No, you weren't," came the reply in a sing-song voice. "You’ve barely gotten up from the couch in the last few days." Moriarty crossed his arms in front of his chest and glanced at Sherlock before his gaze cleared and he nodded, as if to himself. "Take a shower and get dressed - preferably in one of your better suits."

Sherlock glowered at the other man. "All of my suits are better than most people’s, but pray tell, why should I do that?"

"Let’s see…because your hair is greasy, you haven't shaved in three days, you clearly need a shower, and you are going to reek in another day or two. There is no way that you can go without a shower for much longer and seeing as I have something prepared for you at a place where you can't show up looking like that..." Moriarty gestured to Sherlock’s pyjamas.

"That still doesn't explain why you assume that I would do as you say." Sherlock had almost taken a step towards the bathroom before he remembered who he was dealing with, and forced his feet to remain in one place. Moriarty had obviously noticed his brief internal struggle, because he winked at Sherlock.

"Because I can tell that you are already intrigued by what I might have in store for you,” he said smiling. “You’ve just been waiting for something to rouse you from your torpor, and I have brought it to your doorstep."

Moriarty looked much too smug for Sherlock's liking as he delivered his little speech. He contemplated lying back down on the couch just to spite him, but that would have been childish. Besides, he was right – Sherlock had been hooked the minute he’d seen the criminal mastermind inside his flat. He couldn’t go back to staring at the ceiling right now and, frankly, he didn't want to. The thought surprised him even as he turned in the direction of the bathroom. "Fine. But don't think that this means you have won!"

"Of course not," Moriarty strolled over to the kitchen, where he filled and put the kettle on as casually as if he were in his own home. "I’ll just make some tea while you get ready."

Sherlock halted in the doorway and said over his shoulder, "No peeping in on me in the shower."

Moriarty kept his back turned to Sherlock as he sorted through the tea chest and called out innocently, "Why would I do that?"

Sherlock opened his mouth for a retort but found he couldn't come up with one. Moriarty was right; there was no reason why he should be interested in seeing Sherlock naked – none at all. Before he could embarrass himself further, Sherlock hurried into the bathroom and locked the door behind himself. Still better be safe than sorry.

OOO

"What are we doing here?"

Sherlock stared up at the sign above the entrance of the building and frowned. After he had taken a shower, Moriarty had forced him to drink a cup of tea with him and then ushered him into a taxi that had been waiting in front of his flat. In all honesty, Sherlock had expected to end up at an abandoned warehouse or some other dramatic setting. He certainly hadn't expected to end up in the middle of a fairly busy side-road, in front of a French restaurant called L'Astérie.

Moriarty sniggered beside him. "Why don't you tell me, genius? What can you deduce about the restaurant?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moriarty, who returned his gaze with a challenging look. Usually Sherlock would not have risen to the bait, but since there was no mockery hidden in the dark eyes of his nemesis, he didn't see any harm in humouring Moriarty in this instance. It had been much too long since Sherlock had got the chance to show off. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath to stop himself from reeling off the data in one long run-on sentence before speaking.

"It's a French restaurant. Obvious. It opened about a year ago but it has already gathered a number of regular customers. It's treated as some kind of insider tip, since the food is of good quality and the prices are still reasonable. It's not cheap to dine here, but it's also not as expensive as most French restaurants in London. The restaurant is mostly frequented by couples, but you will also find a few businessmen and women among the guests, and of course some tourists like usual. They don't have a formal dress code, but it's frowned upon here to be dressed too casually."

Moriarty nodded at him. "You got all this from the name of the restaurant, the newly painted front, the way a lot of the patrons are greeted almost like old friends, the age of most of the patrons and the rather short but well-thought out menu. Impressive."

Sherlock beamed inadvertently at the compliment before reining in his facial muscles and reverting to a neutral countenance. It wouldn't do to have Moriarty believe that his opinion mattered to him. Still, it was nice to have someone with him who understood his deductions without Sherlock having to explain them all in detail.

"You missed the most important bit, though," Moriarty said chidingly.

Sherlock blinked. While it was certainly plausible that he had missed some small details, no one had ever accused him of missing the most important facts.

"It's absolutely forgivable though, seeing as I hid it from you." Moriarty smiled slyly and then strode in the direction of the entrance, giving Sherlock no other choice but to follow him. They were greeted by the head waiter at the entrance. "How may I help you, sir?"

"James van Reichenbach, table for two," Moriarty informed the head waiter with a winning smile.

The maître d’ didn't even check the reservation book; his eyes widened briefly in recognition before he proceeded to lead them through the restaurant himself. Sherlock allowed himself to fall in step behind Moriarty. He wasn't sure what was going on here. His eyes darted past the tastefully decorated dining room to find a clue as to what game his adversary was playing. Neither the polished wood of the walls nor the thick, blue carpet nor the chandeliers revealed any secrets to him. If he didn't know better, Sherlock would assume that they were simply here to eat, but that couldn’t possibly be correct...

"Your table, sir." The head waiter bowed slightly before them and Sherlock found he had no other choice but to sit down. 

"Do you and your date have any wishes, Monsieur Reichenbach?" the waiter inquired obsequiously.

"The menu and the wine list will do for now," Moriarty replied smoothly.

"Very well," the waiter assented, filling their glasses with water from a decanter on the table before departing. 

Sherlock eyed Moriarty sceptically. "James van Reichenbach?" he hissed quietly. "What are you playing at? Why this alias and what are we supposed to be doing here?"

Moriarty took a sip of his water and then leaned back in his chair with a content smile. "Really, Sherlock, I am a little disappointed. It's fairly obvious what we are doing here. Go on, look around you and deduce it."

Sherlock wanted to refuse - he wasn't one of Moriarty's toys that acted on his command - but he didn't see how he had a choice if he wanted to figure out why they were here. His eyes flickered over the dining patrons and the waiters. He figured out where the staircase to the toilets and the entrance to the kitchen was hidden. There were also some minor deductions about everyone around them that sprung to his mind right away but nothing completely out of the ordinary. Except for how the waiters kept glancing at their table with looks of awe on their faces before starting to whisper amongst themselves. Sherlock shifted nervously on his chair before he caught himself and sat perfectly still again. He didn't know what Moriarty was playing at, so it was wiser not to show any discomfort or weaknesses.

"Well?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow at him after he had received the menu and wine list and the waiter had left again.

Sherlock cleared his throat and took a sip of water before he could think better of it. Startled at his own carelessness, he quickly put the glass back down in front of him.

"It's not poisoned." Amusement and a hint of exasperation sounded in Moriarty's voice when Sherlock looked askance at the decanter. "I could have poisoned you more easily at your flat when you drank the tea I had made. Actually," Moriarty noted, "it's a miracle that I didn't poison both of us considering the items you store in your kitchen."

Sherlock scoffed, but he had to admit that Moriarty was right on both counts. He took another sip of the water before he replied, "None of the patrons here know you - so they aren't your people - but the staff certainly know who you are or at least they know who James van Reichenbach is. They aren't afraid of you, but rather they seem to admire you. I would consequently say you are an investor of this restaurant, although I don't see how this is of any real benefit to you."

"In fact, one of my shell companies owns the restaurant, but otherwise, correct." Moriarty nodded seriously, but then a smile flashed briefly across his face. "It looks like you’re going to have to brush up on your knowledge of money laundering if you can't think of a reason why this investment would be useful for me."

Sherlock brows knitted in thought. Of course, Moriarty would launder money using this restaurant. That made sense, but it still didn't explain why he had brought him here. It wasn't like this crime was hard to discover - it was so inconsequential that Sherlock hadn't even thought of mentioning it - and he wasn't interested in catching Moriarty out for such a minor offence.

"I would have said that you had a very realistic crime dinner planned, but I don't see why you should murder someone at your own restaurant. It would only serve to bring you to the attention of the police. Unless that was what you wanted..." Sherlock trailed off, trying to see what the advantage of this scenario could possibly be.

"A real crime dinner!" Moriarty's eyes lit up and he clapped his hands together. "Now that's a brilliant idea for another day. I can offer that as a solution to one of my clients."

Sherlock knew that he should recoil in disgust at how thrilled Moriarty was at planning the perfect murder for his next potential client, but instead he found himself captivated by it. As far as he could remember, he had always been alone in his fascination with murder and other crimes; to see someone else enthralled - although standing on the other side of the crime - was somehow a relief. Never mind that everyone else he knew wouldn't consider it wise to use Moriarty as a measurement of acceptable behaviour.

"But you still haven't told me why we are here. I will give you a hint, though," Moriarty winked at him, "The solution is quite simple if you don't try to be clever. How about a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc?"

Sherlock nodded coolly at the non-sequitur after deciding it wasn’t a clue, and Moriarty signalled a waiter, allowing Sherlock some time to organise his thoughts. No matter from what angle he considered all the facts, there was but one solution that presented itself as plausible. "We are here… to have dinner."

Sherlock expected Moriarty to laugh at him for such a simplistic deduction and tell him that he had lost the plot. But while the criminal mastermind chuckled quietly, he also nodded in approval. "Well done, Sherlock. I knew you would get there. What do you think of les escargots for starters?"

"Fine." Sherlock answered nonchalantly, although he had to admit to himself that it had been much too long since he had enjoyed this treat. There was no conceivable scenario in which he could have got John to eat at such a restaurant, even for a case. The doctor would have made a show of stating numerous times that Sherlock wasn't his date before complaining about the prices and grimacing at the idea of eating snails.

His heart gave a twinge at that and Sherlock pushed the thought aside. "So why are we having dinner?" He inquired as Moriarty tasted the wine and nodded his approval and gestured for the waiter to fill both their glasses. "Is it to get one over Ms. Adler, since I always ignored her entreaties to ‘have dinner?’"

"I doubt that Irene had something like this in mind when she sent you her invitations." Moriarty said lightly. "But no, it’s not just to spite her and yes, I am well aware that she is still alive and no, I don't intend to do anything about it – just so we are clear about that. You haven't eaten anything besides a few biscuits in days. You can’t possibly solve any cases involving my handiwork without a good meal beforehand."

Sherlock wasn't sure which point to address first. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise to continue talking about Irene. Moriarty might not intend to kill her right now, but that was no guarantee that the criminal mastermind wouldn't change his mind on a whim; he was, after all, so changeable. It would be better not to discuss her at all. Then there was the fact that Moriarty had brought him here just to get a meal into him. Even if it was just to get Sherlock back into the game, the gesture came across as utterly… kind. 

"Don't be foolish! Why should Moriarty care about your wellbeing for any other reason than that he wants to continue playing with you?"

Sherlock couldn't think of a riposte, so he took to scanning the menu instead. If he was already here, then he might as well eat something. His stomach was rumbling from all the mouth-watering smells around him. There was surely no harm in having just one meal with Moriarty, right?! Besides, he thought to himself, it was going to irritate Mycroft no end when he learned of it. Sherlock took a sip of his wine, and then another as he noticed just how good it tasted. He suddenly knew exactly what he was going to get with it for dinner. As if he had heard his thoughts, the waiter materialised next to their table. 

"Have you chosen yet, Messieurs?" he asked solicitously. 

"I will have the grilled tuna with Provencal vegetables," Sherlock said confidently.

"Good choice,” the server said approvingly. “And for your date?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he felt his face flush at the assumption of the waiter, but before he could correct him, Moriarty was speaking. "I will have the broiled swordfish à la Nicoise."

As fast as the waiter had appeared, he was gone again, and Sherlock was left staring at his nemesis in disbelief. "He thinks that we are on a date," he said, slightly disturbed at the thought. As a rule, Sherlock hated to state the obvious, but Moriarty wasn't reacting to the assumption at all, and Sherlock couldn’t help but expect to hear “I’m not his date!” from across the table. That’s what John would have said, after all.

Moriarty merely shrugged and took a large sip of his wine. "Two well-dressed men who don't appear to be business partners go out to have dinner together at a nice restaurant on a Friday evening. It's a reasonable deduction to make that we are on a date."

Sherlock blinked. He hadn't realised that today was Friday. As far as he was aware, it could have been any other day of the week. Nevertheless, that wasn't the point here. "But... you don't mind?" Sherlock realised a second too late that the question made him sound like an unsure teenager.

Moriarty merely raised an eyebrow at him, rather than mocking him for it. "Do I mind if someone assumes that I am on a date with a dashing-looking, brilliant man? Certainly not."

More heat rose to Sherlock's cheeks at the implied compliment. This time, though, he forced himself to hold Moriarty's gaze. "Just making sure."

"Of course." Something strange passed over Moriarty's face and for a moment it looked like he was about to say more, but then he seemed to decide against it. "Now, my dear, tell me what are your plans for the human liver in your fridge?"

Curiosity and real interest were written all over Moriarty's face, and against his better judgment, Sherlock started to talk. He explained the multi-stage experiment that he had intended to conduct for ages to the criminal mastermind. Moriarty only interrupted him to ask well-thought out questions, some of which even got Sherlock thinking of few more parameters he could use in his experiment. It was the most stimulating conversation Sherlock had had in almost as long as he could remember. When he considered this, along with the delicious food and wine, Sherlock had to admit that this was one of the most enjoyable evenings he had had in quite some time. It was just ironic that Moriarty was the person behind it.

Before Sherlock could get to thinking too much about that paradox, the waiter had handed Moriarty a small menu which he was studying carefully. "Crème brûlée or chocolate soufflé?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock declined. "I am much too full for dessert." It was rare for him to eat so much in one sitting, and he felt indulgent already.

He leaned back a bit in his chair, much more comfortable now than he’d been at the beginning of the evening - thanks in part to the excellent wine - and watched as Moriarty waved the waiter over to them. "One chocolate soufflé with two spoons and two espressos, please."

"I said that I was full," Sherlock reminded Moriarty, who shrugged and grinned at him.

"One has always room for dessert. Besides, it would be a shame to have you leave without having tried their fantastic soufflé."

"Is that so?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Would I ever lie to you?" Moriarty said charmingly, leaning across the table.

Sherlock couldn't help the laugh that burst out of his mouth at the question. "May I remind you of “Jimmy from IT” and how you duped poor Molly Hooper?"

Moriarty lowered his head as if ashamed but winked at Sherlock at the same time. "I had to show off my new underwear to someone! Besides, it's not like I broke dear Molly's heart or anything. I was the perfect boyfriend to her."

Sherlock turned this assertion over in his mind. It was true that Molly had never complained about how Moriarty had treated her while they had been together. He was, after all, very well-versed at giving people what they wanted in order to manipulate them. 

"You mean, perfect except for being a consulting criminal," Sherlock reminded Moriarty – and himself – since he was feeling too much at ease around him.

Moriarty held his hands up and granted, "Everyone has a few flaws."

Before Sherlock could argue that murdering people wasn't just a simple flaw, their dessert and espressos were brought. Sherlock's mouth watered at the sight of the soufflé and he almost licked his lips when Moriarty took the first bite and liquid chocolate started to pool on the plate. God help him, but Sherlock had always had a weakness for desserts with rich chocolate. They had been much too rare at home after Mycroft had gained enough weight to be confused with a baby elephant. 

"Want a bite?" Moriarty held a spoonful out to him temptingly.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared at the spoon held out to him and contained a big helping of the soufflé. It was the same spoon that Moriarty had used mere seconds ago since the second one lay unused next to the plate. His first instinct was to protest, but when Sherlock noticed the challenging gleam in the dark eyes of his nemesis, he realised that this was exactly what Moriarty expected him to do. Sherlock felt defiance rise in him at the thought of ever doing what was expected of him by his archrival. Sherlock kept his eyes locked with Moriarty's as he leaned forward and closed his lips around the spoon. His senses registered the surprised look on Moriarty's face and the rich taste of the melting chocolate at once and Sherlock had to keep himself from sighing in pure bliss at the combination.

"Delicious." Sherlock licked his lips and noticed Moriarty's eyes following the movement with blatant interest.

"Told you it was good," he said triumphantly.

Instead of a reply, Sherlock took up the second spoon and they finished the dessert and espresso in comfortable silence. It was not until the dishes had been cleared from the table that Sherlock grew nervous again. Would there be a bill? If Moriarty was an investor, was dinner on the house? If there was a bill, would they split it, or...

"Of course you would split the bill. What do you think this is, a date?!"

"Do you want something else or are we ready to go?" Moriarty’s voice was almost deferential as it cut through Sherlock’s thoughts. 

Sherlock blinked in confusion at Moriarty. As far as he could tell they hadn't received the bill yet. Certainly he wasn't suggestion to leave without paying. His thoughts must have been written all over his face since Moriarty laughed quietly at him. "Dinner is free for the owner and his date."

Sherlock could detect no hint of derision in these words, so he found himself rising from the table to follow Moriarty out of the restaurant. Outside, they found a cab already waiting for them at the kerb. 

"221b Baker Street," Moriarty instructed the driver when he climbed in after Sherlock. 

Somehow it felt surreal to share a ride with Moriarty after they had spent a whole evening together. It felt... almost like a real date. Sherlock shook his head at the notion. Moriarty had said himself that he had taken him to dinner for the sole purpose of getting him back on track. He hadn't done it out of kindness, but because he was bored when Sherlock didn't play with him. It was as simple as that, he told himself. Despite this, Sherlock still felt vaguely disappointed when they pulled up in front of Speedy's. He reproached himself for not wanting this evening to end, and even more so for longing for the companionship of a criminal.

"Your stop, darling," Moriarty said blandly. 

Sherlock searched for something appropriate to say, but he found himself at a loss. He searched Moriarty’s face for a visual cue, but for once the usually-expressive face was indecipherable. Finally, Sherlock gave up and said simply, "Thank you."

A genuine smile flickered over the face of the other man. "You're welcome. Let's do that again some time."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. He understood societal norms about dating and could sham his way through them fairly effectively when needed for a case. If this had been a date, he could have leaned over and ended the evening with a kiss, or even invited his companion up for coffee. However, this wasn’t a date and Sherlock wasn’t even sure he had any coffee in the flat, so he pulled the door handle and climbed out of the cab. He watched it drive away from the kerb and walked up to the front door after it was out of sight. 

Sherlock ascended the stairs to his flat as fast as possible lest Mrs. Hudson hear him and emerge to pepper him with questions about where he’d been. He didn't want to talk about this evening with her, or anyone really. Somehow, it felt like a secret he needed to keep from everyone if he didn't want this evening to turn into nothing more than a strange dream.

"Stupid," Sherlock murmured to himself as he closed the door behind him. He snatched his laptop up from the coffee table and made himself comfortable in his armchair. He didn't want anyone else to learn about this evening and mock him for it, but he also didn't want to think about it for too long himself. One never knew what his mind would come up with if he dwelled upon it. Instead, Sherlock logged into his website to see if there were any interesting private cases for him to solve. He sensed his brain’s sluggishness slipping away as he felt the pull of The Work returning. His deductive skills needed praxis, he decided, or he would never be able to win a game against Moriarty.


	4. Dinner and a Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish everyone who celebrates it Happy Easter and all of you a great weekend. Enjoy this chapter! =)
> 
> **Edit (01.10.2020):** : My wonderful beta reader, **FlameTurnsBlue** has taken the time, to work her magic, on this chapter. You'll find, that she's done an amazing job. :)

### Dinner and a Movie

The case was solved even though the police had tried to help him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the utter waste of time and effort and hung up his coat before he collapsed on the couch. 

"Can you imagine – they arrested the brother of the victim just because he didn't give an alibi and had a motive." The skull looked patiently back at him from his place on the shelf. "If they had only looked more closely, they would have realised that the brother didn't give them an alibi because he didn't want them to find out that he had met up with his brother-in-law at a swingers’ club. It would have spared me two days of convincing them that they’d got it wrong. Two whole days!" Sherlock raked his hands through his hair. "And they didn't even think about investigating her workplace. As if it can only ever be a crime of passion when a woman is involved."

Sherlock continued his rant as the skull regarded him with indifference. "They could have figured out that the victim and her colleagues were committing fraud if they had just checked the ledger. From there, even Lestrade could have figured out that Mrs. Miller got greedy and was killed by the three other members of her department to prevent the fraud from being discovered. Quite simple, really. If it hadn't looked like a crime of passion at first glance, even Scotland Yard could have solved it. Instead, I had to do all the boring work of looking through years accounting records. On the bright side, at least one of the suspects tried to run away, so I was obliged to give chase, albeit briefly. Aspiring criminals should be required to go to the gym beforehand; otherwise it's not even fun to pursue them."

Sherlock was aware that he was whining by now, but there was no one there to hear him anyway. The skull looked on him with as much disinterest as usual, and it couldn't even be relied upon to make him some tea.

Sherlock sighed quietly and got up from the couch to wandered into the kitchen to start the kettle. John had always made tea as soon as they got home after a case, and now Sherlock could finally see why. He was exhausted after working on the case for four days straight and a warm cup of tea – one that hadn't been brewed by a trainee of the Yard - sounded heavenly.  
His stomach grumbled at the thought and informed him that some other kind of nourishment was also required.

Sherlock glanced at the fridge. He couldn't remember the last time he had been to the shops. At first, he hadn't seen any reason to venture outside at all. Then he had spent a couple of days solving some private cases in between experimenting on the liver until Lestrade had come to him with his promising-looking case. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't bought groceries for him while he was away, Sherlock doubted that anything edible was left. Of course, he could get take-away, but the only place who would still serve him at ten in the evening didn't deliver - at least not to his flat. He shouldn't have opened the door in only his shorts that one time... although that might still have been acceptable if he hadn't been covered in mucus and blood everywhere else. Some people were just too sensitive.

Sherlock decided to make himself a whole teapot full of tea, right away, since he didn’t fancy to start the kettle again, if he fancied another cup of tea.- He left it to brew while he continued to consider the food situation. He could either go to bed without eating anything - his stomach protested loudly against that - or he could impose upon Mrs. Hudson for sustenance. Hopefully she hadn't taken her herbal soother this evening and was still awake. There was only one way to find out, he decided.

Sherlock was striding through the living-room towards the staircase when the bell downstairs rang. He heard one long insistent ring, then a break of a few seconds, followed by another ring. At this hour, it was either a client or a friend of Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock wondered if he should tell Mrs. Hudson that he wasn't in the mood to see any clients tonight, but he realised that he had hesitated for too long when he heard Mrs. Hudson hurrying to the front door.

"I’m coming, I’m coming," she muttered. "Dear God, at this hour." 

Sherlock heard the click of the lock being turned and opened his own door a tiny bit to better hear what was being said.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson's confused voice carried up the stairs, indicating that she didn't know the visitor – which meant that it was a client. Sherlock sighed and prepared himself to call down that he was closed for the night when a smooth voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Good evening. You must be Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady." There was a smacking sound and an embarrassed giggle from Mrs. Hudson which told Sherlock that she had just been the recipient of a chivalric kiss on the hand. He rolled his eyes in annoyance at the theatrics even while a part of him was amused by it. Typical of Moriarty to overdo it like this, he thought to himself.

"As charming as you are, young man, I would still like to know who you are." A hint of warning had entered Mrs. Hudson's voice and Sherlock mused that there was a good chance that his landlady wouldn't let the criminal mastermind inside, and wouldn't that be amusing?

"Oh, I am awfully sorry." An embarrassed note had entered Moriarty's voice and Sherlock could just see him rubbing his neck and lowering his eyes to the ground for a second to make it even more believable. "I thought Sherlock might have mentioned me at some point but obviously not."

If Sherlock hadn't known him better, he would have bought the hurt that echoed in the soft voice. As it was, he was only amazed at how good an actor the criminal mastermind truly was.

"I’m James. I met Sherlock at the morgue for the first time a few months ago. We went out together last Friday… but if he hasn't mentioned it to you then it obviously didn't mean as much to him as it meant to me."

Moriarty sounded like he was on the verge of tears now, and Sherlock knew there was no way that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't fall for the act.

"Oh no, don't think like this, my dear!" he heard her exclaim. "Sherlock would never tell me if he met a dashing young man like you. He’s much too private! He never even told me about his ex-boyfriend while they were living together. He seemed like a nice man at first – a doctor, you know – but he turned out to have a terrible temper. I feared for the good china when Sherlock finally threw him out. Well, Sherlock didn’t actually throw him out – he was at the hospital at the time, but that was probably for the best. Who knows what he would have done if Sherlock had been here." Moriarty remained utterly silent as Mrs. Hudson rambled on. Sherlock cursed inwardly that he couldn't see their expressions from where he was. "I was so glad that his brother oversaw John's - that's his ex - move. But then Sherlock got back from the hospital and he was so terribly sad – heartbroken, really. I do understand; I was the same after my husband was executed although by that point I was glad he was gone. Ah yes, the strange ways of the heart."

Moriarty hummed something in confirmation and Sherlock could just picture his nemesis shifting from one leg to the other while trying to come up with an excuse to get away from Mrs. Hudson without being rude.

"It seems I have you to thank for getting Sherlock back on his feet! Life at Baker Street just wouldn’t be the same without the occasional explosions and odd smells, I tell you." There was a pause and Sherlock imagined that Mrs. Hudson was giving Moriarty a once-over with her sharp, discerning eyes. "I am thankful that you’re here for Sherlock – but if you hurt him, you will learn that I am not just your average old landlady."

The steel in Mrs. Hudson's voice caused a warmth to bloom in Sherlock's chest at the protective tone. Never mind that she had no idea who she was really dealing with here; it felt nice to know that someone still had his back.

"I don't intend to hurt him." Moriarty sounded sincere, almost hurt at the assertion, and then there was some rustling and a delicious scent wafted upstairs. "In fact, I am here to make sure that he eats something."

"Oh, is that Chinese from the little restaurant two streets over?!” Mrs Hudson asked, delighted. “Sherlock loves their food, but they won't deliver to him anymore since that time he..."

"Jim!" Sherlock threw open the door and called down to stop Mrs. Hudson from sharing this particular story with his guest. "Come up here before the food gets cold."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "You heard His Majesty." She patted Moriarty's cheek as she let him in. "Have a nice evening, you two!" Then she turned her head upwards to address Sherlock. "Do you have any clean plates and cutlery to use or should I bring you up some? Mind, only for eating and not for experiments!"

"No, we’re fine,” he assured her. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good night." 

Sherlock had learned that it was much easier to get his landlady to leave him alone when he was polite to her. Otherwise, she often saw fit to lecture him and he wasn't in the mood to be scolded in front of Moriarty. Sherlock held the door open to let his archenemy inside and just barely held himself back from licking his lips at the heavenly scent of Chinese takeaway. 

Moriarty skipped up the stairs and crossed the threshold. Sherlock closed the door before his landlady could say anything further, and then turned to the criminal mastermind. "What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I prefer Jim, if you don't mind." He winked at Sherlock and placed the bag with the containers of Chinese food on the coffee table in the living-room.

"Fine, it's Jim then." The name felt more familiar on Sherlock's lips than it had any right to do. "What do you want?"

"Having dinner with you." Obviously, was implied as Jim - Moriarty - went about unpacking the take-away. "Why don't you change into something more comfortable while I take care of the food?"

Sherlock took in the casual jeans and shirt the criminal mastermind wore and then glanced down at himself still in his black trousers, white button-down shirt and suit coat. The idea of changing into his pyjamas sounded heavenly but...

"Thank you, but I am quite comfortable."

"You know," Jim started and the scent of dumplings filled the room as he opened one of the boxes, "I’ve seen you in a ratty shirt and I didn't think any less of you for it… but suit yourself."

Sherlock hesitated for a second. It was true – he had even taken a shower while Jim had been in the flat. And he did so love to relax in a dressing gown. Still, it would feel too vulnerable to remove his finely tailored armour and lounge around in the sitting room in casual dress while he was entertaining his adversary. 

"The same adversary you intend to have Chinese take-away with." The snide voice in his Mind Palace had a point and Sherlock decided to stop fighting it. "I need to have a shower anyway,” he said finally. “Don't use the plates that are in the sink."

"Chemicals or body parts?" Jim asked, one eyebrow raised.

A smirk flickered over Sherlock's face at the question. "Both."

Jim's laughter followed him to the bathroom and Sherlock felt his whole body relax at the sound.

OOO

"You got too many dumplings," Sherlock complained when Jim added another one to his plate.

"Nonsense! There is no such thing as too many dumplings."

Sherlock glanced sideways at the criminal mastermind. They were both sitting on the couch with the take-away boxes all scattered on the surface of the coffee table and steaming mugs of tea in front of them. If someone had told him only two weeks ago that he would share a selection of his favourite dim-sum dishes with his nemesis, he would have advised them to get their brain checked for tumours. As it was Sherlock wasn't even sure anymore if it was appropriate to describe Jim as his nemesis. Yes, they worked on different sides of the law, but it didn’t seem as though Jim – he found he couldn't even think of him as Moriarty anymore - was still out to get him. Yes, the other man still talked about playing games with Sherlock, but there hadn't been any death threats involved since Jim had stopped by at the hospital. The games he wanted to play with Sherlock were interesting cases Jim wanted him to solve and nothing more. Obviously, these cases were from clients that Jim couldn't stand but which had been too lucrative for him to turn down. If Sherlock solved one from time to time, then no one could really blame Jim for that. Sherlock realised that he shouldn’t be content to only solve the cases that Jim didn't like. He should plan to take the whole criminal network down with the spider in the middle of the web but... he didn't want to. 

Sherlock pursed his lips when another dumpling - filled with pork - was dangled in front of his mouth.

"Say Ah!"

Sherlock snatched the dumpling from the chopsticks and was rewarded with a chuckle. He glanced at Jim who popped a spring roll into his mouth and then leaned back against the cushions with a contented sigh. No, there was no way that he could continue to refer to Jim as his nemesis – but what was he to him, then?

An acquaintance? No, too impersonal.

A friend, then? Sherlock scrunched up his face and took a sip of the lukewarm tea. Was it possible to go from sworn enemies to being friends in a matter of two weeks and two meetings - three if he counted the hospital visit?

"It's probably just as unlikely as going from strangers to flatmates in the matter of a day."

Sherlock felt he had to concede the point. Friends, it was then. Mycroft would have a field day if he got wind of it.

"All finished or would you like another helping of marinated chicken?"

"Not if you don't want me to explode." Sherlock rubbed his full belly and was grateful that he had changed in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt after his shower. He wouldn't have been able to eat half as much while still wearing his tight-fitting trousers and dress shirt. As it was there was still enough left over to last for the next couple of days.

"Yes, I overdid it a little," Jim admitted unapologetically. "Why don't you store the remains of our feast in the fridge while I pop in a movie?"

"A movie?"

"Yes, you know the thing with actors and actresses which usually tells an invented story and is meant to entertain people."

Jim looked amused as Sherlock gathered the boxes with the remaining Chinese take-away and carried them into the kitchen. "Bring the bottle of the good Scotch with you,” he called after him. “The one you hid in the back of the highest cupboard."

Sherlock glanced back into the living-room just in time to catch the bright smile on Jim's face before it was hidden from sight again. God, but he looked like a completely different man when he was smiling. Not only did he appear years younger, but his eyes also lit up and looked like melted chocolate. Sherlock shook his head to push the thought away. It was one thing to think of Jim as a friend - a whole new level of craziness, some might say - but to wax poetic about his eyes was on an entirely different level.

"How did you know that the Scotch was there?" Sherlock called back over his shoulder even as he retrieved the bottle and two tumblers. "It's not like you could have checked for it up there yourself."

Instead of being offended - like John would have been - Jim snickered at the jibe at his height. "You pretend you don't care for alcohol, but you enjoy a glass of fine Scotch as much as the next person. Big brother gifted this bottle to you for a case you solved, and you hid it away in the cupboard in the kitchen. You could have stored it in your room but then you would have had to admit to yourself that you were hiding it away from the good doctor. No, if you stored it in the kitchen, you could pretend that it was there for the both of you. At the same time, you knew all too well that Doctor Watson wouldn't be caught dead climbing on the sideboard just to look through the cupboards. Considering that he had some history with alcohol abuse, you didn’t dare leave such a good Scotch within his reach."

A retort sprang to Sherlock's lips when Jim mentioned John, but he swallowed it down again. After all, it was true. He had hidden the Scotch from John because one occasional pint had turned into three every other evening and Sherlock hadn't wanted the temptation within his reach. Still though, he was irritated at how correct Jim’s deduction was.

"You didn't know the Scotch was there. You just assumed that if I had any it would be there."

Jim shrugged and added two fingers of Scotch to both tumblers. "Call it an educated guess. Sit down," he patted the cushion next to him, "The movie is about to start."

"It will only start when you hit Play," Sherlock retorted but sat down and took a sip of the Scotch. It burned down his throat in all the right ways and Sherlock relaxed farther back against the cushions. "What are we watching?"

He only hoped that Jim didn't share John's love for mindless action movies. He would prefer anything to the adventures of that incompetent womanizer who wouldn't survive five minutes doing work for MI6.

"One of my favourites. I am sure you will appreciate the beauty of it."

"Saw" was the title that flickered over the screen and Sherlock took another sip of his Scotch and got more comfortable. His shoulder brushed against Jim's and for a second, he thought about inching away, but before he could even move a muscle the first scene came to life on screen and Sherlock forgot all about moving. His eyes were glued to the screen as Adam and Lawrence tried to figure out how to free themselves.

"Idiots. Just look at the saws. It's obvious that they won't cut through the chains," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Of course not, but most people find it too hard to see the obvious," Jim returned in a whisper instead of shushing Sherlock for speaking during the movie like John had always done.

"Idiots," Sherlock muttered again, directed both at the general public and the two men in the movie. He was aware that most people probably found this movie shocking, but Sherlock found himself marvelling at the games the killer had created. The one that involved a candle and a fast burning liquid was his favourite, although he wouldn't wish for anyone to be a participant of such a game. Still, he reasoned to himself, there was no harm in admitting to the brilliance behind it; it was only a movie. Right…? He looked sharply at Jim. "You don't plan on using these methods, do you?"

Jim was indignant. "Do I look like I want to be known as the Jigsaw Killer or the Saw Killer or whatever stupid nickname the media would come up with?! These games are entertaining, but there’s no practical use for them to me. My clients want solutions that don't get them the attention of the police... and I don't cater to psychopathic serial killers who get off on torture."

The answer calmed some part of Sherlock that had still been in doubt about it. There was no question that Jim was a criminal, but at least he wasn't as bad as some others.

"What a weak excuse to justify his crimes."

Sherlock pushed the voice that sounded like Mycroft away from his Mind Palace and took the last sip of his Scotch. When he leaned back in the cushions after having put the tumbler on the table, he realised for the first time just how tired he was. The combination of a few exhausting days on a stressful case, plenty of food and alcohol were finally taking its toll. If it hadn't been for the exciting movie, Sherlock was certain that he would have fallen asleep long ago. It was a small victory that he’d managed to keep his eyes open until the end credits rolled over the screen.

"I am just going to the loo," he heard Jim announce next to him.

Sherlock murmured an affirmative and then shifted to claim the spot that his... friend had just vacated. He needed to lie down for a minute and rest his eyes, he thought to himself. He would be up again before Jim returned.


	5. Texts and Smileys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next chapter. Enjoy! :)
> 
> **Edit (22.10.2020):** : A huge thanks to **FlameTurnsBlue** for doing such an amazing job of beta-reading this chapter. You'll find it's improved significantly. :)

### Texts and Smileys 

He was warm. 

Warm and comfortable.

Sherlock stretched his arms and legs and snuggled deeper into the warmth of the blanket. The blanket was soft and warm, but... didn't feel like the one he usually had in his bed. He opened his eyes to a slit and noticed that the light was coming from the wrong direction for him to be in his bedroom; the noises from down the street were much too loud as well. Sherlock blinked his eyes open slowly... and stared at the ceiling of the living-room. He must have fallen asleep on the couch then, he realized, after...

Sherlock jerked upright with a start as he recalled the previous evening. Not only had he shared take-away with Mori... with Jim, but they had also watched a movie together afterwards. Either that, or Sherlock had been drugged and dreamed up the whole episode. In the light of day, the latter sounded much more realistic, although it neither explained why he was covered with a blanket nor why the faint scent of Chinese dumplings hung in the air. Sherlock pushed the blanket aside and was about to get up when his eyes fell upon a piece of paper on the table, weighted down by a full glass of water. A phone number was written on it and underneath it - in elegant lettering - was a simple request:

Call me!  
Jim

Sherlock frowned down at the words and the number while he sipped water from the glass. The note revealed more than most people would assume at first glance. Firstly, there were the most obvious observations that Sherlock could draw from the writing. It was obvious that Jim was left-handed and also that he had used a black pen for the first five digits of the phone number before he had changed to a different one. This allowed the conclusion that his first pen had run out of ink and he had needed to use a different one. While all of these observations weren't particularly interesting, the meaning behind them was.

Sherlock turned the piece of paper over in his hand. It was a page from one of his notebooks. He knew that one of them was currently sitting on the kitchen table. Therefore, Jim must have found him asleep and had set out to find something to jot down a message on... instead of just hacking into Sherlock's phone and saving his number to his contacts, like he probably could have.

"Don't forget the blanket," a giddy sounding voice reminded him. One that Sherlock hadn't heard in his head since John had shot the cabbie for him. Nevertheless, it was right: the blanket was another factor Sherlock had to take into consideration. He knew for a fact that the blanket hadn't been in the living-room last night. It also wasn't one that Sherlock had stored in his bedroom. Ergo, it had to be one of the spare blankets that had been stored in John's... the upstairs bedroom.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the realisation that Jim had gone to the trouble of retrieving a blanket for him from another room in an attempt to respect the privacy of his bedroom. Further, he could have woken Sherlock up, but had instead decided to let him sleep and made him as comfortable as possible. The deduction shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him, but it did. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time someone had gone out of their way to accommodate his needs and the fact that Jim Moriarty had been the one to do so was icing on the cake.

Sherlock stared back at the phone number on the note. He could throw it away and pretend that yesterday evening had never happened. In this scenario, he was certain that Jim would get the hint and not contact him again. Or at least, there wouldn't be any more dinners or movie nights – the advances would be strictly of the murder and mayhem variety. It was harder to predict how events would play out if Sherlock actually complied with Jim's request and called him. He calculated nearly endless possibilities of how this scenario could possibly play out.

Sherlock finished the glass of water and got up to search for his phone. He found it on the kitchen counter and took it back to the living-room with him, and sat down in his armchair. It was a simple thing to enter Jim's number and save it as a new contact, but then Sherlock found himself stumped. Was he supposed to call him now or later? A glance at the clock revealed that it was half past eight in the morning, which was usually an acceptable time to call someone, but there was no guarantee that Jim wouldn’t be busy right now.

"Idiot, if he is busy, he just won't accept your call. He is running an international criminal network; he surely wouldn’t let a phone call interrupt his work. And even if it did, that would be his problem. Besides since when do you care if you’re calling at an inconvenient time?!"

Sherlock glared at the phone after his silent self-flagellation, but he couldn't get himself to hit the call button. It was pathetic; he was behaving like a teenager who was afraid to call his crush. He didn't even have a crush on Jim! They were just... friends, or at least on their way to becoming friends, which was unlikely enough given both their professions. Yes, that was the only reason why he was still hesitating, Sherlock told himself – because he wasn't sure what to make of Jim's advances \- in lieu of a better word. It shouldn't be possible for them to even co-exist without opposing each other, and yet they had spent two evenings together without so much as hurtful word. The whole thing was a paradox. No, it was a mystery, and Sherlock loved mysteries.

On that thought, Sherlock opened a text field and typed the words without hesitating.

I prefer to text. - SH

He hit send before he could change his mind and then leaned back in his armchair with a shaky exhale. Making the decision to text Jim had been more stressful than it had any right to be. He needed to be more relaxed about this whole business or before long he would embarrass himself.

Sherlock glanced at his phone, disappointed when it failed to buzz, and then put it aside annoyed that he had to admit to himself that he was waiting for a reply from Jim. He couldn't remember ever behaving like this in his teenage years. Then again, there had been other, more important things than dating on his mind when he’d been a teen, so it perhaps wasn’t a fair comparison.

Sherlock shook his head at himself and wandered into the kitchen to make tea for himself. And breakfast too, he decided when his stomach gave an insistent growl. As long as he didn't have a case on, he reasoned to himself, there was no reason to starve himself.

The Earl Grey that Sherlock had chosen for this morning had finished steeping and he was just reheating some fried rice with chicken and two spring rolls when his phone alerted him to a new text message. Somehow Sherlock managed to remain patient until he had carried everything back to the living-room and sat down on the couch before he checked his phone.

I know. ;p

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the stupid emoji even as he grinned. It was so fitting that Jim would use these obnoxious yellow faces to express his feelings. He stared at the two words and the cheeky emoji and pondered if he should write back. There was no way to continue this conversation without changing the topic, but if he did that, that Sherlock would reveal that he wanted to communicate with him.

"You already proved that by texting him the first time. Don't be a baby about it." For once, Sherlock had to agree with the assessment of the version of Mycroft in his Mind Palace. He had already shown his hand by texting Jim. He might as well make the best of it now.

Thanks for the blanket. - SH

He had considered apologizing for falling asleep first, but then thought better of it. There was no need to apologize for giving into his bodily needs after an exhausting case. Sherlock forced himself to eat the two spring rolls and drink half of his tea before he checked his phone again.

My pleasure. Though next time you might want to try falling asleep in bed. Much more comfortable. ;)

Sherlock gaped at the text in a mixture of disbelief and relief. The latter because Jim obviously wanted to meet up with him again, but the former because of the emoji. Without it, Sherlock would have accepted the words as merely a statement of an obvious fact but with the addition of it, it looked more like... Jim was flirting with him.

Sherlock shook his head. No, that couldn't be right. He simply wasn't used to Jim's way of texting yet and was reading too much into what was probably some harmless banter. Jim did love to banter. He ate a few forkfuls of fried rice but finally gave up all pretence of being interested in food and instead focused back on his phone. There was no way of telling how long Jim would be free to text him and Sherlock wanted to get as much information as possible before business called the criminal mastermind away. At least, that was how Sherlock justified typing out another message to himself.

The couch is just as comfortable as my bed but thanks for your concern. - SH

He debated adding an emoji but decided against it in the end. It would only look forced if he started with them now. This time, Sherlock didn't even pretend to do anything but wait for Jim's reply, which came mere seconds later.

Be that as it may but the couch is still too small.

I fit perfectly onto it as you well know. - SH

Without leaving room for anyone else. Yes, I noticed that. :/

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard of his phone in indecision. Certainly, Jim wasn't implying that he would have joined him on the couch if there had been room left next to him. No, that didn't sound right. Especially as that would imply that he wanted to share a bed with Sherlock. It was not very likely that this was Jim's goal. Judging from what Sherlock had learned about the criminal mastermind, it was more plausible to assume that flirting via text was just something Jim enjoyed doing. There was no reason to read more into it than there was.

You could have used the bed upstairs if you wanted to sleep over. - SH

Best not to encourage Jim or he would send inappropriate GIFs to him next, he decided.

Nah, I had important business to attend to this morning.

What kind of business? - SH

It would be no fun if I told you. ;)

And before Sherlock could reply:

Have to run. Let's play again soon. ;)

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't sure how to reply to this text, especially since he didn't know what Jim was referring to. Was he implying that they should meet up for dinner again? In that case, Sherlock was game. If he was simply referring to giving Sherlock another case to solve, that would be more than acceptable too. Although… if Jim was hinting at wanting to play a game again like the one that had led them to the pool, then Sherlock wasn't on board. As fun as it was to solve interesting cases, he didn't fancy feeling responsible for the deaths of people again just because Jim wanted to show off.

After another few minutes of staring at the screen, Sherlock put the phone aside without replying. He needed more data to prevent himself from making a mistake, and he knew exactly where to gather the needed information.

OOO

"Hi, Molly."

The pathologist whirled around at his greeting and almost sent a Petri dish flying to the ground.

"Sherlock," she blushed and straightened her lab coat. "Do you need anything? I’m sorry but I don't have any body parts for you right now."

"Yes, I," Sherlock licked his lips nervously and scowled when he caught himself at it. "I need your help."

Molly frowned suddenly and Sherlock wondered if it was because of the substance of his request or if it was how he had voiced it. Usually he just burst into the morgue and demanded Molly's assistance when he needed it. Maybe he should have stuck to that behaviour; he probably would have if he weren't so... nervous. This was different from his usual requests for the usage of lab equipment or body parts, though, and Sherlock didn't have the first clue how to go about it.

"Are you alright?" Molly stepped towards him and looked him up and down. 

"I am not hurt, " Sherlock snapped impatiently when he realised that she was checking him for injuries.

Molly huffed in annoyance and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I see. Then why are you here?"

Sherlock was flustered by her tone. He wasn't used to Molly standing up to him. A couple of years ago, she would have done anything in her power to keep him happy, but ever since she’d got together with Lestrade she had changed – at least in regard to how she treated Sherlock. Obviously, getting over her crush on him had done wonders to her self-confidence and Sherlock was glad for that. While her crush had been useful to him when he needed a favour from her, the constant blushing and stammering around him had gotten on his nerves. Still, it would have been easier to ask Molly what he wanted to know if she wasn't looking at him with such a skeptical look. Maybe this whole idea had just been stupid.

"It's personal... Nevermind, I will just..." Sherlock shook his head and made to leave.

"Sit!" Molly pushed a chair in his direction and Sherlock meekly sank down onto it while his friend took a seat opposite him.

"Is this about John?" The hard look in Molly's eyes had been replaced by compassion. She placed a hand gently on top of Sherlock's.

"John? No, why would I want to talk about him with you? Lestrade already told you what happened."

A dark look crossed Molly's face. "Yes, Greg told me the horrible things that John said to you and I still regret that I wasn't there that day."

"Why?" Sherlock couldn't imagine one good reason why Molly would have wanted to witness the scene at the hospital.

"Because Greg wouldn't have managed to prevent me from slapping some sense into John."

A shudder ran down Sherlock's spine at the hard and determined look that was mirrored in the usual soft brown eyes. If he had ever needed any proof that he shouldn't get on Molly's bad side, then he had it now.

"I still don't see why I would want to talk about John." Sherlock really didn't. Talking about his former friend wouldn't change anything.

Molly only shrugged. "Sometimes talking helps and you said that it was something personal, so I just assumed it was about him."

"No." Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath to gather his courage before he plunged right ahead. "It's about Jim."

"Jim?" A bewildered look entered Molly's eyes for a second before it dissolved into shock. "You don't mean Moriarty, do you?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I do. Seeing as you dated him for a short amount of time, I thought that perhaps you could shed some light on a few things for me."

Molly's brow furrowed. "I don't know how me dating Moriarty while he pretended to be someone else will help you… but I’m willing to try."

"That is exactly why I am asking you: I need to know if he is pretending or not." Before Molly could ask any more questions and shatter Sherlock's courage, he moved right on to a summary of his recent encounters with Jim. He started with the hospital visit, went over their first dinner together and their movie night and ended by passing his phone over to Molly.

Sherlock fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his shirt while she read through the short text exchange and then handed him back his phone.

"Well?" He prompted when Molly remained unhelpfully silent.

"I don't know." Molly rubbed her nose with her index finger and stared at the wall behind Sherlock's head. "If it was anyone else, I would tell you that they were honestly interested in you, but..."

"You think that Jim... Moriarty… is just playing with me?" Sherlock's heart leapt painfully against its ribcage at the thought. He didn't want to think that everything between them had just been a game. The thought itself was terrifying for a number of reasons, but Sherlock was kept from exploring them when Molly continued speaking.

"That's just it; I’m not sure. It sounds like too much trouble to go to such lengths just for the sake of a game. Then again, I also wouldn't put it past him, but…" a wistful look crossed Molly's face before it vanished again. "It doesn't sound to me like he’s playing with you. That’s just a guess based on how Jim behaved when he was pretending to be interested in me."

"How did he behave?" Sherlock leaned forward on his chair.

"Shy and very accommodating. Hell, he watched Glee with me although I think he hated every second of it." Molly chuckled quietly. "I think he’s at least showing you more of his real self. And I’m sure he meant what he said to you at the hospital."

Sherlock sighed. "That still doesn't mean that he isn't playing with me. Why on earth should he suddenly be interested in me?"

Molly arched an eyebrow at that. "From what I’ve heard, he was always interested in you. That whole game he played was just to get your attention."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, conceding the point.

"I don't know how serious Jim is about... this." Molly gestured vaguely in Sherlock's direction. "I’m sure it gets lonely when you’re a genius running an international criminal syndicate. Maybe he just wants a friend who understands him."

"A friend," Sherlock echoed.

"Or more," Molly suggested with a shrug. "He never sent me such flirty messages, so maybe that means something, or maybe that's just his way of communicating."

"So," Sherlock started after some time had passed and it became clear that Molly wasn't going to say anything else, "What should I do?"

He hated to ask that question, but he was out of his depth and Molly was much better at this stuff. Sentiment really wasn't his area.

"Let me ask you something." Molly leaned forward and propped her chin up on her hands. "Are you comfortable around Jim? Do you enjoy spending time with him?"

Sherlock didn't even have to think before he nodded affirmatively to both questions.

"Then," Molly leaned back in her chair, "There’s no reason why you shouldn't see him again."

"Apart from the fact that he is a criminal mastermind," Sherlock said drily. 

Molly waved his objection aside. "As long as he doesn't start murdering everyone in London, I don't see the problem with that."

Sherlock stared at Molly in amazement. Sometimes he wondered how it was possible that he hadn’t seen how special she was years ago. She wasn't as ordinary as he had initially believed. "So, should I flirt back or ignore his flirting?"

Molly pursed her lips. "Depends on what you want from him, I guess. Maybe play it safe for now until you get the chance to figure out how serious he is about it."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in consideration. “Playing it safe” was probably a good plan in any event, but especially since he wasn't sure where he stood on the issue himself. "Thanks for your help, Molly."

"Anytime," she said cheerily.

They both got up from their chairs and Sherlock was thinking he might make a detour to Scotland Yard to bother Lestrade for a case when Molly's voice stopped him in his tracks. "You should reply to his last message or he might think you’ve lost interest."

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his back pocket and typed without having to think twice about his words.

Fancy another round? I could try to cook us dinner without poisoning us. - SH

"Done."

Sherlock grinned at Molly who gave him a thumbs up and then headed out the door. He had a busy day ahead of him if he wanted to solve a case and get the shopping done before dinner time.


	6. Two Consultants and one Crime Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have to thank one of my best friends for the existence of this chapter - and the one that will be posted next week. She suggested I add a chapter that takes place at a crime scene after she had read the complete story. ^^  
> So here it is, Sherlock and Jim at a crime scene. Enjoy! :)
> 
> **Edit (13.01.2021)** : This chapter has been beta-read by my amazing beta reader, **FlameTurnsBlue**. All improvements, you'll find, are thanks to her. =)

### Two Consultants and one Crime Scene 

"Anything yet, Sherlock?" Lestrade’s voice was polite but anxious above the din.

"I would have something if you just stopped interrupting my thought process with your inane questions, Lestrade." Sherlock glowered at the DI as he circled the body of Mrs. Taylor for the umpteenth time. She had been poisoned; even the idiots from the Yard had realised that much from her spittle-covered chin and the unnatural looking position her body had been found in. Sherlock's eyes flickered over the twisted extremities and the grimace on Mrs. Taylor's face where she lay in front of her armchair. She must have got home from a stressful day at work - judging by the wrinkles in her trousers and blouse - and then sat down in her armchair to enjoy a good book. Well, a good book from her point of view, since Sherlock would have never have been caught dead with the romance novel that lay on the armrest of the chair.

He spun around slowly in the middle of the room again but there was nothing noteworthy. From the looks of it, she had sat down in her armchair one second, alive and well, and was dead the next. Sherlock had already checked the seat of the armchair for a hidden needle or the like, but there’d been nothing, and no injection marks anywhere on her body either. The poison must have been fast-acting, since she didn't have the chance to do more than stand up, let alone make it to the phone after the first symptoms appeared, so she must have been poisoned at home… but how?

Sherlock glanced at the grief-stricken husband, who was babbling to one of the police officers while dabbing at his eyes theatrically every few seconds. Sherlock was certain that the man had killed his wife. The motive was clear enough: She was earning all the money and he was living off of her. This arrangement would have held for a few more years if Mr. Taylor hadn't met someone new. Sherlock couldn't say for sure if it was a man or a woman, but that wasn't of much importance right now. The gears whirred in Sherlock’s mind: Mr. Taylor had obviously wanted to leave his wife but… they had a prenuptial agreement, yes, that was it – he wouldn't have gotten anything if they had divorced. Ergo, inheriting the money was the only option for him if he wanted his new lover and the cushion of a flush bank account. So yes, he had certainly killed his wife, but how? Sherlock steepled his fingers as his mind ran through various scenarios of how Mrs. Taylor may have been murdered.

"Not getting anything, Holmes?" Anderson taunted from where he was, frankly, making a mess of the crime scene. "Looks like you don’t function very well without your keeper. You shouldn't have run him off if you need him so much. But I can see how even Doctor Watson couldn't stand to be around you any more, after finding out you’re such a freak..."

"Shut up, Phillip!" Donovan’s voice rang out from across the room.

Sherlock turned to see Sally advancing toward him. He glanced over at Anderson and saw that he was gaping at her like a fish out of water. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "I assume you don't intend to get back together with him." It was an assertion, not a question, and his sureness only annoyed Sally further.

"You shut it too, Holmes,” she said crossly. “If you can't find anything, then just tell us so we can get on with our work."

"Stroppy, aren't we?" Sherlock was just about to tell her that she needed more sleep and less caffeine when Sally poked a finger in his chest. 

"Oi, you’re a right one to talk. You already made one newbie cry, snapped at Greg twice and got in an argument with the crime scene photographer."

"According to you that's par for the course for me," Sherlock said, straightening his spine and trying his best to look down at Sally, who looked disappointingly unintimidated.

"Yeah, well, usually you need more than ten minutes to be this annoying," she countered. They glared at each other in a silent match of wills until Sally suddenly took a step forward and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm. The contact took Sherlock by surprise, but he stayed calm and didn't try to shake her hand off. He looked at it, and then at her, waiting for an explanation.

"Listen,” she started. “I know that you had a harsh couple of weeks after the whole incident with Doctor Watson, and I get it if you’re still upset because of it but don't take it out on us. If you need to… talk to someone..."

"No thanks, Sally," Sherlock said hurriedly.

Donovan put her hand up and stepped back involuntarily. "Oh no, not me – I was suggesting you find yourself a therapist or a support group, or something."

"Oh." Sherlock just hoped that he wasn't blushing in embarrassment at his misjudgement. "I-I am… fine," he added a little stiffly.

"Are you sure?” she said sceptically. “I wasn't joking, y’know. Lots of coppers see a shrink when they’ve had a rough go of it. Maybe you really should..."

"Sergeant Donovan, could you come here for a second?!" one of the officers called from the direction of the entrance. Sally rolled her eyes and said apologetically, "Probably one of those annoying journalists trying to get past the tape again."

"My deepest sympathies," Sherlock called after her. He would grant that it was… nice? how Sally worried about him – in her own way – but it was also funny how wrong she’d gotten the reason for his curtness. There was no way that he was going to a support group; Sherlock doubted that one even existed one for his specific problem. There couldn't be too many people who were disappointed that a criminal mastermind had cancelled their dinner plans the previous evening. And even fewer people who were angry at themselves because they were disappointed about those cancelled plans.

Sherlock growled in frustration and ran his hands through his hair again. He was sure that he would have found the missing clue already if his mind hadn’t been wandering off to Jim so often. God, he thought, he should be solving this case and not having half of his mind focused on his phone waiting for the sound of a text alert. Jim had told him yesterday that he’d be busy, so there was no need to expect a text anytime soon. Sherlock told himself that he shouldn't behave like a teenager with a crush, but his recent conversation with Molly had made him aware of how much Jim had started to mean to him. It would all be fine, he thought, if only Jim wasn't interfering with his cases. Well, he amended, it wasn’t Jim interfering exactly – it was his own thoughts that were coming back to Jim time and time again. 

"Holmes!" Sherlock turned toward Donovan, who looked even more annoyed than she had a few minutes ago. "There’s someone here who wants to see you. He says that..."

"I just want to see Sherlock at work," Sherlock heard in that distinctive Irish lilt. Both Sally and Sherlock stared at Jim when he entered the room, stepping literally onto the scene of the crime. He looked completely out of place in his dark blue Westwood suit amongst all the police officers and technicians.

"He’s told me so much about his cases that I simply had to come." Jim looked like the epitome of innocence when he looked at Sally with huge puppy dog eyes.

"Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to leave,” she said, gesturing with her hand toward the exit. “This is an active crime scene that’s still being processed."

Sherlock's respect for Sally rose significantly when he saw that she wasn't swayed by Jim's act at all; even the criminal mastermind appeared slightly impressed.

"I could arrest you for obstructing the police." Sally glared at Jim. "What is your business here?"

"Jim, could you have a look at the body?" Sherlock called out before Jim could try anything further. There was already a mischievous gleam in his eyes and Sherlock didn't want to risk it.

"Sherlock, you can't just give a civilian access to a crime scene! It’s bad enough we let you in here without a noddy suit on." Lestrade was now barging into the conversation as well, in an extremely unwelcome fashion. After all the cases he had solved for them, Sherlock had expected at least some amount of latitude.

"He is with me," Sherlock announced and turned his back to both Lestrade and Donovan as he stepped next to Jim who was inspecting the body with an almost bored expression.

"Please don't tell me that this case has you stumped,” Jim said, a note of disappointment in his musical voice. “It's obvious what happened here."

Sherlock bristled at the comment and was just about to ask him if he had planned the crime himself when he recalled the presence of Donovan and Lestrade. Sherlock decided he wasn't in the mood to explain to the police that Jim was the same consulting criminal who had kept the whole of London on tenterhooks with the threat of bombs in the centre of the city. It would only complicate matters.

"The question isn't what's happened, but rather how it's happened," Sherlock replied testily to Jim, who only shrugged.

"Still obvious." His eyes travelled around the room and he gave a slight nod. "Nicely executed, although I might have done a few things differently."

Next to them, Lestrade cleared his throat and Sally’s hands immediately went to the pocket that held her warrant card.

"Oh dear," Jim gave a nervous laugh and held up his hands placatingly as if he only now realised what he had just said. "Please don't get the wrong idea. I’m a crime novelist, and I’ve had to research all kinds of possible ways to kill off my characters and fast acting poisons were essential for my latest story. That's how I recognized with what she was poisoned."

"You also said it was obvious what happened." Sally narrowed her eyes at Jim and it was obvious that she didn't believe his story or at the very least was wary of it.

Jim lowered his eyes and gave the perfect impression of a child that had been caught eating sweets before dinner. "I was just bragging a little. I know that Sherlock loves to solve crimes and how good he is at it, and well…" Jim scratched his head and gave a nervous laugh, "I guess I just wanted to impress him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the act and almost snorted when Lestrade groaned in disbelief. Obviously, the story had convinced him that Jim was just a big fan of Sherlock’s. How the DI managed to catch any criminals was beyond Sherlock when he was so helplessly gullible. Donovan, on the other hand, still didn't look convinced, which increased Sherlock's respect for her tenfold. It was too bad he couldn’t confirm her suspicions about Jim without getting him arrested. Not that Sherlock wasn't certain that Jim would walk free in a matter of days, but he still didn't want to see him behind bars. Which was strange, he reflected, considering that, until recently, he’d been fixated on catching Jim for that express purpose.

"Am I distracting you?" Jim whispered directly in his ear and Sherlock flinched minutely. He schooled his features carefully to avoid showing the effect Jim’s proximity was having on him. He was annoyed to feel a flutter of pleasure in his chest, and he strained to tamp it down.

"I could certainly do without you playing around with the police officers,” he said, as casually as he could. “They’re useless enough as it is without you confusing them even more." Then he lowered his voice. "Is this one of your... jobs?" Sherlock hissed. Jim shook his head. "No, I would have told my guy to use an undetectable poison and then get rid of the evidence."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Then how do you know how it was done?"

"Oh no, does it irk you that I solved it faster than you did?" Jim’s eyes got big like they always did when he was being insincere. "Aw, don’t be miffed. I’m just used to looking at a crime scene from a different angle than you do. You’re looking for clues but I’m looking for mistakes that ordinary people make when they commit a crime. D’you want a hint?"

"Hey, freak! Cut the flirting or leave my crime scene!" Anderson yelled across the room. Of course, to a simpleton like Anderson, it had to look like he and Jim and he were flirting – Jim's chin was all but on Sherlock's shoulder and they were whispering furtively. Sherlock gazed around the room and saw the same thought mirrored on the face of every other police officer. Great, now they would all be too busy to speculate about his private life to do their jobs.

"Did you just call Sherlock a freak?!" The voice behind Sherlock had none of the mocking pleasantness it had just held. Jim now sounded dangerously calm, like he was already planning a tragic accident for the forensic scientist.

"So what?" Anderson’s gloved hands went to his hips in defiance. Sherlock realized that Anderson must have an unbelievably poor sense of self-preservation if he wasn't able to read the threat that Jim was telegraphing.

"Oh nothing," Jim replied smoothly, "I was just wondering if it is standard procedure to go around insulting consultants of the police on the job. Seems like an Equality Act violation, but I might have to check with your boss, maybe write a complaint to him, what do you think?"

Anderson opened his mouth to reply but closed it after a second and swallowed hard before stomping from the room in a huff. Sherlock wanted to laugh but stopped himself from gloating. Perhaps he should be angry that the consulting criminal had deemed it necessary to come to his aid, when, after all, he could take care of himself. Then again, it had been a touching gesture – although it still felt strange coming from Jim. Sherlock felt like his mind was on a rollercoaster. What he would give for five minutes of peace and quiet, preferably with a cigarette and... wait, that was it!

"Nicotine!" he exclaimed.

Everyone except Jim stared at him in confusion – Jim looked away while a smile tugged at the corner of his lips – but Sherlock was too busy putting the pieces of the puzzle together to explain just yet. He marched into the kitchen to confirm his theory and grinned in triumph when he found the tumbler in the sink. One look at the sideboard in the living-room explained why Jim had deemed the execution of the crime sloppy; it was.

"Now, what do you have?" Lestrade asked him eagerly.

Under any other circumstances Sherlock would have taken the time to confirm his theories first himself before sharing any of his suspicions with Lestrade. But today he felt he’d rather spend some time with Jim than stay at Bart's for hours running tests. In his defence, the crime was barely a six – all the evidence and the murderer were already in the room.

"Mrs. Taylor died of nicotine poisoning," Sherlock started to explain, only to be interrupted by Lestrade.

"No, that’s impossible,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “She didn’t smoke or use nicotine patches."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's irrelevant seeing as one is extremely unlikely to get nicotine poisoning from either of these habits anyway."

"So, you think she was injected with it?" Lestrade’s brow furrowed in confusion.

"No, she digested it. Drank it to be exact." Sherlock pointed to the decanter with brandy on the sideboard before he could be interrupted again. "You will find a high concentration of nicotine in this brandy. Her husband probably dissolved a couple of cigars in it. He doesn't drink any kind of alcohol himself, so it wouldn't have been suspicious to his wife that he never joined her for a tipple. Mrs. Taylor wasn't a big drinker herself, but whenever she was especially stressed at her job, she would sit down with a glass to relax. I didn't make the connection sooner because there wasn’t a glass at the scene of the crime. Obviously Mr. Taylor removed it to put us off the scent, but he made the mistake of leaving it in the sink without washing it." Sherlock couldn’t help but sneer at the incompetence. "He also didn't think to get rid of the remaining brandy and you will find only his fingerprints on the book that Mrs. Taylor was supposed to be reading. He put it there so that no one would question why his wife was apparently just sitting in her armchair with neither something to do nor to drink. Question him and I am sure he will admit as much soon enough."

"Sherlock, wait!" Lestrade called after him as he turned to leave, Jim close behind him. 

"I told you everything I know, Detective Inspector," Sherlock called over his shoulder without slowing his pace. "I am confident you can figure out the rest yourself."

Thankfully Lestrade didn't try to hold him back. Sherlock and Jim ducked under the tape and left the crime scene without any problems. They walked silently side-by-side until they were out of sight and earshot of any police before he glared sideways at Jim. "What were you thinking coming to a crime scene?" he demanded. Sherlock didn't even bother asking how Jim knew where to find him in the first place. He probably had more eyes and ears in London than Mycroft did.

"Why? Were you worried that they would figure out who I am and arrest me? I’m touched, Darling." Jim's voice was as sweet as honey as the words dripped from his tongue and Sherlock scoffed at it reflexively.

"No, I wasn't worried about you." A lie, yes, but a necessary one if he didn't want Jim to mock him about his irrational fear. "I just don't like an audience when I am working. What?!" Sherlock added in annoyance when Jim guffawed at that.

"Oh, you are funny," Jim wiped at his eyes even while he continued chuckling, "And a terrible liar, I might add. You love an audience!"

Sherlock stubbornly ignored the assertion as they walked down the street without any destination in mind. He resolved that wouldn’t rise to Jim's bait.

"Ah, I know," Jim clapped his hands together like he had just made an amazing discovery. "You were worried that you couldn't dazzle someone as brilliant as yourself with your deductions like all these ordinary people."

Sherlock huffed out a breath. "Why should I be worried about that? There was no one as clever as me at the crime scene."

Jim put his hands over his heart. “What a blow to my ego! But seriously, now I don't have to worry about my business at all, after seeing how slow you were to solve that crime. Really, I would have expected a better show."

The remark was delivered as teasingly as all of Jim's former taunts, but it still stung. Not that Sherlock was a stranger to mockery but it usually wasn’t directed at his intelligence. Or it was delivered by people so far beneath himself that he didn't even bother to remember their names. But to have Jim making fun of his deduction skills was a different matter altogether. 

"Oh, are you worried that dear Jim will lose interest in you if you don't live up to his expectations?!" The taunting voice in his Mind Palace sounded annoyingly enough just like Mycroft and as much as he wanted to ignore it, Sherlock couldn't simply push it aside. Jim had told him himself that he had first been fascinated by Sherlock because of his brilliance, so if he decided that Sherlock was just as ordinary \- and therefore boring \- as everyone else, then he would certainly throw him aside like a broken toy. Sherlock pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and stared straight ahead while he continued walking next to Jim. "If I’m too dense for your liking, feel free to leave anytime." The words came out more bitter than Sherlock had intended, but at least his voice had remained strong and steady during the delivery.

"Oh dear, did I hit a nerve?" Jim asked in his sing-song voice. Sherlock didn’t answer, and then Jim grabbed his arm to stop him mid-step. Reluctantly, Sherlock turned around to face Jim. He could admit to himself that he had been happy to see him when the consulting criminal had appeared at the crime scene, but if Jim’s post-game analysis was going to be nothing more than insults, Sherlock had had enough already.

"I was just teasing you, Sherlock." Coming from Jim, that almost sounded like an apology, but Sherlock still shook his head. 

He sqaured his shoulders and said with as much dignity as he could muster, "Well, I don't like it."

"I see that now." Jim smiled regretfully. "Obviously my way of suggesting we have dinner together was a little too complicated."

Sherlock frowned at that. "What's dinner got to do with it?"

"Really, Sherlock do I have to explain simple biology to you now? I thought you were a scientist." Jim rolled his eyes in an overly dramatic fashion. "Low blood sugar doesn't contribute to one’s ability to think clearly. No," Jim held up his hand when Sherlock made to open his mouth to protest, "Don't give me that crap about digestion slowing you down. Eating nothing at all is even worse. Besides," Jim gave a slow smile, "You just solved a case and I know you don't have anything else on right now. So, dinner?"

For a second Sherlock was tempted to point out to Jim how often Irene Adler had asked him this exact question and how well that had worked out for her, but he withstood the impulse. For one thing, he’d already shared dinner with the consulting criminal a couple of times and also... Jim wasn't Irene. No, Jim was definitely much more alluring than The Woman. 

"He is much more dangerous, you mean." Sherlock almost got the impression that the voice in his head was smirking at him but he found he couldn't argue with the assessment. Jim was unquestionably more dangerous than the self-proclaimed dominatrix could ever hope to be. He knew it shouldn't be a point in Jim’s favour, but then, Sherlock had never been good at staying away from danger.

"Fine, my treat this time." Sherlock abruptly resumed his pace down the street again. He ignored the way his heart pounded heavily in its ribcage when he heard Jim's footsteps following behind him. They were just two blokes with unusual job descriptions going out for dinner, nothing more. No need to get excited about it.


	7. Dinner by Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others but I promise you the next one will be longer again.^^ I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

### Dinner by Candlelight 

"Ah, Sherlock so good to see you!"

Sherlock allowed Angelo to enclose him in a bear hug and pat his back before he cleared his throat and stepped back. "I need a table for two."

"Ah, I see." Angelo's eyes fell on Jim who stood quietly behind Sherlock. "You are his date for the evening then. Welcome."

Sherlock barely suppressed a snicker at the look on Jim's face when the Italian chef shook his hand enthusiastically.

"The best table in the restaurant for you." Angelo ushered them to the same table that Sherlock and John had sat at during their first case together. Sherlock pushed the memory of that evening aside as he took his seat opposite Jim and with the whole street in his view. Not that he needed to observe anything outside of the restaurant today but Sherlock preferred not to have his back to a window. He just hoped that Jim didn't mind considering his own line of work. Sherlock was just about to check with the consulting criminal if their seating arrangements were fine with him when Angelo reappeared at their table with a candle.

"Much more romantic this way." The Italian chef winked at Sherlock when he lit the candle and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. Jim and he weren't on a date after all and John had always hated when people had assumed that they were dating or - worse - in a committed relationship. He certainly didn't want Jim to get the wrong idea.

"Or the right one, you mean." Sherlock ignored the comment his mind deemed appropriate to throw at him and was about to tell Angelo to take the candle but Jim was faster.

"Thank you," Jim directed a bashful smile at Angelo, "This is very thoughtful of you."

Sherlock could only gape at the shy expression on Jim's face. It was almost the same one he had worn when he had tried to convince the police officers that he was an innocent citizen. Sherlock didn't know what to make of this and he didn't have time to wonder about it for long when Angelo beamed down at them. "My pleasure. I am so glad that Sherlock has found someone else. You will certainly treat him better than the last fellow did, right?" 

Even Jim looked impressed by the warning look Angelo directed at him and - to Sherlock's complete surprise - nodded. "I have every intention to be more worthy of him."

The wording must have sounded strange to Angelo's ears but he still seemed content with it as he nodded his approval. "Good. Then enjoy your evening here. Everything you want on the house for you and your guest."

"Wait a second," Sherlock stopped the Italian chef from leaving as his mind caught up with the conversation. "How did you know that it... didn't work out between John and I?"

A dark look crossed over Angelo's usual friendly face. "He came here with a woman a few days ago. I wouldn't have said anything - your relationship isn't my business - but then he started to spurt all kind of bullshit about you. So," Angelo shrugged his shoulders unapologetically, "I threw him out and told him to stay away from my restaurant."

Sherlock blinked slowly. He was aware that Angelo liked him ever since he had cleared his name - a little - years ago but he hadn't expected this kind of devotion. "That was... Thank you."

Angelo nodded solemnly at him and patted Sherlock's shoulder again. "Anytime but enough of such stories." The Italian chef got back to his usual beaming self. "Enjoy your date."

Sherlock waited until Angelo was out of earshot before he turned to Jim who was smirking at him. "Your treat, huh?"

"Surprised that you aren't the only one with access to free meals at a great restaurant?" Sherlock shot back and Jim laughed. He really laughed. Sherlock could only watch in fascination how his whole face transformed while his frame shook with laughter. God, but Jim looked completely different like this. Not like a different man exactly but more free and years younger as well. His dark eyes were sparkling with amusement, two dimples appeared right under his lower lip and his whole posture was relaxed when he leaned back in his chair until the last chuckle had died down.

"Touché," Jim inclined his head towards Sherlock when the last of his laughter had died down. "You always manage to surprise me."

Coming from Jim, this was indeed a huge compliment and Sherlock took a moment to savour it before he stored it away in his Mind Palace. "So do you," Sherlock planted his arms on the table and leaned forwards to peer more closely at Jim. "Why did you come to the crime scene?"

Jim cocked his head to the side and regarded Sherlock with slow smile. "What you haven't figured it out yet? You really need to eat something then. What can you recommend?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Jim's obvious evasion of the question but decided to let it go for the time being. "Everything Angelo prepares is great but I would recommend the gnocchi. They are handmade and a new batch was just finished about twenty minutes ago."

Jim nodded. "Gnocchi caprese it is then."

"I will take the gnocchi with spinach in gorgonzola sauce," Sherlock decided after a quick glance over the menu.

"White wine to go with it?"

Sherlock agreed after a second of consideration just in time for them to give their orders to Angelo. They spent some time in comfortable silence afterwards while they waited until their wine had been brought to the table and they were guaranteed some uninterrupted time before they continued their conversation. Which was easier than Sherlock had expected. "You didn't ask how I knew that the gnocchi were freshly made."

Jim took a sip of his wine and sighed contently before he gave Sherlock a slow smile. "You don't like to explain your every deduction to people. Thankfully, I can follow your thought process well enough to not need one."

Right, Jim had probably noticed the specific stains on Angelo's apron as well and had drawn his own conclusions from it. Sherlock shouldn't underestimate the criminal mastermind and he didn't but still...

"Of course, I also know that you enjoy to show off from time to time. It's only natural after all. I am guilty of the same vice."

"It's the least you are guilty of," Sherlock returned with a smirk and Jim winked at him.  
"Don't make me blush, Darling."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment," Sherlock retorted half-hearted. There was no way that he was going to admit that he was impressed by the crimes that Jim had committed. No need to feed the ego of the consulting criminal even more. Besides, judging from the gleam in Jim's eyes he already knew about Sherlock's admiration for him. Which was fine seeing that Jim held the same amount of respect for Sherlock's work. At least that was what he hoped. Apropos work: "You still owe me an explanation for your appearance at the crime scene."

The light of the candle reflected on the wine glass when Jim turned it between his fingers with a lazy smile. "If you want to know so badly, deduce it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Jim at the obvious challenge and then swept his eyes over the consulting criminal as he took in all the details he hadn't analyzed before. His attire was that of a businessman but he hadn't come from a meeting. No, he had only just changed into the suit before coming to meet Sherlock. Considering that he preferred to be a little more casual around him - at least their last dinner at Baker Street suggested as much - he had other plans for after dinner. Sherlock ignored the pang of regret at the thought and concentrated on his deductions. So he had a meeting with a business partner of his planned. Seeing as he had gone to the trouble of going out with Sherlock beforehand the meeting wouldn't be held in London but somewhere else. The distinctive impression of a plane ticket in the inner pocket of his jacket was evidence of that.

Sherlock took a sip of his wine. "You wanted to see me before you go away on a business trip. You anticipate that it will take at least a few days until you get back to London and you couldn't stand to leave without spending some time with me first."

An impressed look crossed Jim's face before he chuckled quietly. "A bold assumption."

"But you don't deny it."

Jim shrugged and opened his mouth to reply but closed it again when dinner was brought to their table. He only continued their conversation when two plates of steaming gnocchi were placed in front of each of them and they were alone again. "You can't fault me for wanting to spend some time with someone more intelligent than the average person. Especially not when I have days of boring negotiations ahead of me." Jim shuddered at the mere notion and then pierced some gnocchi with his fork and hummed in delight when he chewed them. "Besides, the dinner here is delicious."

"You didn't even know that we would come here," Sherlock retorted but even he had to admit that Angelo had outdone himself today as he tasted his own dish.

"No, but I was counting on you finding us a good restaurant. You didn't disappoint."

Sherlock took a large forkful of gnocchi to prevent himself from responding to the compliment in any embarrassing way. He would be damned if he blushed due to such meagre praise.

"If you tell me where I am going I will be even more impressed."

Sherlock took his time while he continued eating as he accessed all the available data about Jim's network that he - and Mycroft - had gathered in the last year. It took some calculating and processing but by the time they had both finished their dishes Sherlock believed that he was able to make an educated guess.

"Germany."

The way Jim's eyes widened in real surprise was enough to confirm Sherlock's deduction and he smirked while the consulting criminal needed a second to gather himself. He was back to his smirking self much too soon for Sherlock's liking. "Impressive. How did you know?"

Sherlock postponed answering the question by sipping slowly from his wine while he debated how much to reveal to Jim. There was no way that he could let on how much he knew about the connections of the criminal network that Jim had built. Nevermind that Jim would probably draw his own conclusions from Sherlock's deduction alone but he still had to be careful. 

"Did you consider that he only asked you to deduce his destination to test your knowledge of his network?" The voice sounded as aloof as Mycroft's and Sherlock sneered inwardly at it. Still he was careful to keep his answer as vague as possible when he replied. "You wouldn't dress in a suit if you expected to be on the plane for more than two hours so that narrows the possible options down significantly. Then there is the fact that you won't get a direct fly to so many destinations at this time of the evening and... that's it," Sherlock finished lamely as he realised that he couldn't reveal more about his deductive process without giving too much away.

"That's it?" Jim raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "In this case, this wasn't a deduction but merely a lucky guess. I could just as easily be on my way to France or Switzerland if that was your whole criteria."

"But you don't have as big a branch in either one of these countries as you have in Germany. And you would only attend a meeting in person if it was extremely important. Your network isn't well established enough in France or Switzerland to hold this much interest to you just yet." Sherlock snapped his mouth close with a click as he realised how much he had just given away. Damn, but Jim knew exactly how to press his buttons and Sherlock just couldn't stand being accused of guessing when he was in fact drawing logical conclusions. He dared a glance at Jim who was regarding him with a mixture of wonder and... complacence. Sherlock frowned at that. There was no good reason as to why Jim should be satisfied with his own work after Sherlock had just revealed how much he knew of his network except...

"Bravo." Jim slowly clapped his hands. "I knew that you had done your homework."

"So you were aware that I know about the structures of your network and you just wanted to see if I would reveal as much to you?"

Jim brought the tip of his index finger to his lips as if deep in thought. "Well, that was a nice side effect but I also wanted to see if you look as magnificent as I remembered when you are working on a puzzle. I must say," Jim added with a wink, "You excelled my expectations."

"You," Sherlock blinked in quick succession unsure of how he should finish the sentence when he was saved by Angelo's arrival at their table. "Was everything to your liking? Would you like some dessert? Marcel outdid himself with the tiramisu today. Or maybe a coffee or a grappa."

Sherlock shook his head when he noticed how Jim threw a glance at his watch. "Thanks, but we have to leave now."

"You will take the dessert home with you then? " Angelo winked at them with a sly smile and Sherlock felt his own face heat at the obvious innuendo. He glanced at Jim to check if he had caught it as well and slapped himself inwardly a second later when he was met with a smirk by the consulting criminal. Of course, Jim would catch Angelo's meaning. He was the master of sexual innuendos himself therefore it would be child's play for him to spot one.

"Sadly, not tonight," Jim replied smoothly and got up from his chair. "Certainly another time."

Sherlock could simply stare at Jim and almost forgot to get up as well while Angelo kept beaming at them. Had this just been one of Jim's typical flirtatious remarks or had he meant more by it? Sherlock's heart was pounding away in his chest and he could barely hear his own thinking over the rushing of blood in his ears when he stepped outside on the kerb.

"Jim," he started although he wasn't sure if a direct question from him would be met with mockery or a honest answer but was interrupted by the arrival of a black car. For a second Sherlock feared that Mycroft had sent it for him until he realised that it was there for Jim. To give him a ride to the airport. Sherlock sighed quietly. It would be boring without Jim around to entertain him. At least this was how he justified being sad about Jim's business trip to himself. 

"Don't look like that, Sherlock." Jim teased him gently and took a step towards him until their chests were mere inches apart. "I will be back before you know it."

"Of course, you will be. You can't stay away from me for long."

Jim's eyes softened minutely and for a second he leaned slightly more towards him and Sherlock waited with bated breath for them to touch but the moment passed when Jim shook himself and took a step back. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he threw over his shoulder as he climbed into the car.

"Likewise," Sherlock called back drily and caught a glimpse of an amused smile before the door was pulled close. He waited until the car had pulled off the kerb and vanished into the traffic before he pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and started on his way home. The prospect of days without Jim was looming ahead of him and Sherlock already dreaded the boredom that would certainly set in without the criminal mastermind around to entertain him.  
There was no other reason for him to miss Jim after all. None at all. Honestly.


	8. Interventions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the lack of Jim in this chapter but I promise I will make up for it in the next few ones to come. ^^

### Interventions 

Any plans to overthrow a government this weekend or are you free? - SH

Sadly, I am still stuck with this incompetent fools. I am hard pressed to turn them into a new shoe collection. 3:o[

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his armchair. He shouldn't have expected any other reply. Jim had told him that the negotiations for his newest project were taking longer than he had expected and that he couldn't tell when he would be back. That had been two weeks ago.  
Sherlock sighed and typed back a reply.

Don't! If you turn them all into shoes you will have to find new minions to work with and it will only take longer. - SH

He didn't even get to put the phone aside before he got an alert for a new message.

Miss me, do you?! ;)

Sherlock stared at the text. A couple of weeks ago he would have just ignored the question and moved on to a different topic. By now though Sherlock didn't hesitate long before he typed his reply.

Just as much as you miss me. - SH

So you are thinking of me day and night?! ;)

A blush rose in Sherlock's cheeks at the implications behind these words. It was neither the first time that Jim had told him how much he missed him nor was it the first time that he had flirted with Sherlock. And yet the simply words still made Sherlock's heart jump with joy and excitement. Actually he feared that his reaction to Jim's flirtations had got even stronger since they had started to chat daily via text.

When I am not busy. - SH

You aren't busy right now. ;D

No, I am bored out of my mind. - SH

It wasn't exactly true seeing as Sherlock wasn't bored right now. As long as he was chatting with Jim his mind didn't feel like it was about to tear itself apart. But seeing that the criminal mastermind only had limited time for him each day it meant that Sherlock would be without intellectual stimulation soon.

Shall I entertain you? =D

A quiet chuckle escaped past Sherlock's lips. He knew what Jim meant by it now but the first time Sherlock had got such an offer he had been more than a little wary. It had taken Mrs. Hudson to convince him to accept it.

"Are you sulking again, Sherlock?"

"I am not sulking, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock glared at his landlady who only shook her head fondly at him and made her way into the kitchen. The look on her face meant that she would brew a pot of tea and then force Sherlock to share it with her. There were worse fates of course especially since Mrs. Hudson's tea was always perfect but Sherlock knew that she didn't only want to have a cuppa with him. He had dodged her every attempt to ask him about Jim for four days by now and it seemed like this was just about Mrs. Hudson's limit when it came to satisfying her own curiosity. Not that there was much to tell her at this point. Sherlock hadn't seen Jim since their movie night and their only contact had been via text.

"Two sugar, Sherlock?"

"As usual, Mrs. Hudson... but don't take it from the blue sugar bowl!"

It showed just how good his landlady knew him because she only sighed at the request but didn't ask any unnecessary questions. That was, until she had put a cup of tea in front of Sherlock and sat down in the armchair opposite him. "Well?"

"Well what, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Don't try to be smart with me, young man." Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her tea and folded her hands in her lap. She looked just like your usual noisy but completely harmless old lady as she crossed her legs and smiled sweetly at Sherlock. If he didn't know better even he might have fallen for her act. At least for as long as it took him to notice the steel hidden in her gentle eyes. She wouldn't leave until Sherlock had told her everything about Jim.

"We went out for dinner twice and you already know that he came over with take-away, last Friday. That's it. There is nothing more to tell you."

"He didn't stay overnight when he came over, did he?" Mrs. Hudson completely ignored the last part of his statement as she sipped her tea.

"No, he left." Sherlock didn't feel the need to explain that he had fallen asleep on the couch and that Jim had covered him with a blanket. There was no need to intensify the blush in his cheeks further.

"Well, it was only your second date after all." Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I am sure he will stay over next time... or maybe he will invite you to his place."

God, but there should be a rule against old ladies winking at you knowingly while sipping tea from an expensive china cup. "We are not dating, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock tried to tell his landlady in vain as she only gave him a motherly smile. 

"When are you going to see him again?"

Sherlock sighed. There was no use in trying to convince Mrs. Hudson that Jim and he weren't dating after she had set her mind to believing otherwise. "I don't know." Sherlock's eyes flickered to his phone. He still needed to reply to Jim's last message but he wasn't sure what to write. Jim's offer had been more than a little vague and Sherlock was doubtful how wise it would be to accept it. "He is on a business trip." Sherlock added as an explanation when his landlady kept on staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson leaned forward with a curious gleam in her eyes. "What's his profession?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to lie but then decided against it. If nothing else, the truth would at least prevent Mrs. Hudson from asking any more questions. "His full name is James Moriarty. He is the leader of an international crime organisation."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened minutely. "He must be very busy then. But if he still takes the time to meet you that says a lot about his feelings for you."

Sherlock blinked at his landlady in disbelief. "I just told you that he is leading a criminal organisation."

"I heard you perfectly fine the first time, my dear." Mrs. Hudson took another delicate sip of her tea. "As long as he treats you well I don't see why his job should matter. If anything he might even provide you with some interesting puzzles to keep you entertained."

Sherlock's eyes widened at that. "Mrs. Hudson, you are a genius!"

He grabbed his phone and opened the chat with Jim.

Do you want me to entertain you? ;)

Of course, that was what Jim had meant by it. Sherlock slapped himself inwardly for not making the connection.

Yes, please. - SH

"James Moriarty," Mrs. Hudson mused while Sherlock stared impatiently at his phone. "Isn't this the one with the pipes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied absentmindedly as his phone buzzed in his hands. Jim had sent him two pictures. One appeared to be the logo of a brand and the other one showed a pool of blood.

Have fun. ;)

Sherlock grinned while his mind was already trying to work with the clues. This promised to be an interesting case. He could already tell.

"Sherlock..."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson. I have a case to solve."

His landlady huffed when he got up to get his laptop while already entering his first search request in his phone.

"Fine, but tell your man that he owes me the money for repairing the wall that he blew up."

Sherlock snorted but forgot all about Mrs. Hudson's request when he found the company that was behind the brand logo. A huge grin broke out over his face. This was at least an eight!

The case had taken Sherlock four days to solve and had included the unrevealing of a smuggling ring that was specialised in blood diamonds and resulted in the downfall of a very popular brand. Seeing as the case had also included a fist fight and a chase through the sewers of London, Sherlock had rated the case as a nine in the end. His hopes were high that Jim's next case would prove just as entertaining. It would take his mind off how much he missed the criminal mastermind.

Sherlock was just about to type out a message to Jim when he heard the front door open and then heavy steps on the staircase. A scowl took over his face as he glared at the door in preparation for the intruder. Of course, he would choose this time to come over. "What do you want?"

"And a good morning to you, brother mine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft and remained seated while his brother picked his way through stacks of papers and books before he sank into the free armchair. A smirk crossed Sherlock's face as the cushions caved in under his brother's weight.

"I would ask but it's obvious that the diet isn't going well. You have gained four pounds at least since I saw you the last time."

To Sherlock's utter disappointment Mycroft didn't take the bait but only rolled his eyes at him. "I don't have time for your childish games, Sherlock. Unlike you I have a full schedule."

"Then don't feel like you have to stay on my account." Sherlock nodded towards the door. "You can find your way out."

Mycroft sighed quietly. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

Sherlock frowned and watched quietly as his brother opened his leather briefcase to retrieve a small folder from it. He held it out to Sherlock who crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I am not interested in a case from you." There was no way that he would waste his time on some political affair. Mycroft had enough people to solve such matters for him.

"You don't have anything else on."

"Not yet," Sherlock shot back and regretted it a second later when his brother's eyes focused on him. He forced himself not to squirm but it was hard while under Mycroft's scrutiny. Was that how everyone else felt when he was deducing them? If so then Sherlock understood why so many people avoided him. The feeling was absolutely hateful.

"I see." Mycroft leaned back in his armchair and folded his hands in his lap. "Your little friend is sending you a new puzzle."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line and refused to reply to that statement. If Mycroft wanted to say something he could do so without prompting from him.

"Of course, you are aware that I know of your interactions with James Moriarty."

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle while he waited for Mycroft to get to the heart of the matter. A part of him had waited for his brother to confront him about his association with the criminal mastermind while a larger part of him had ignored the threat Mycroft posed to his friendship with Jim. 

Stupid!

Sherlock should have come up with at least three ways to get Mycroft off his back if he decided to put his overly large nose where it didn't belong. Instead Sherlock had exchanged texts with Jim like an infatuated teenager. Texts that Mycroft had probably read. A blush threatened to humiliate him in front of his brother and Sherlock bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent it from spreading all over his face.

"So what?" Sherlock finally snapped when Mycroft just kept on looking at him with an unmoving expression on his face. His brother had always managed to get Sherlock to talk with this tactic. He had always been much more patient than Sherlock could ever hope to be. "I solved a case for Jim... Moriarty. It's not like it did anyone any harm."

Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow at him. "The stock market disagrees with your assessment but that's not the point." A lazy smile turned up Mycroft's lips that always reminded Sherlock of a fat cat that had got the cream. "We both know that you didn't just solve a case for Moriarty. You also had dinner with him thrice and you are in constant contact with him." Mycroft nodded to his phone and Sherlock fought the impulse to hide it from the prying eyes of his brother.

"It's not a crime to have dinner with someone or to text him."

"No, usually it's not but if you are working together with a wanted criminal then it's a different situation."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Sherlock slowly got up from his chair to glower down at his brother. "Because if you are here to threaten me then you better leave before I get angry, brother mine."

Mycroft turned his head to glance up at Sherlock in amusement and his arrogant expression was almost enough to get Sherlock to hit him. Only the thought of how smug Mycroft would get if he managed to get a rise out of him held Sherlock back.

"It's not a threat, it's a warning." Mycroft got up from his chair and Sherlock hated that it was his turn to look up at his brother now. Two inches was all there was between them in height but it made a huge difference when Mycroft was looking down at him like he was a little child. "As long as Moriarty doesn't wreck havoc in England, I can ignore his activities but there are others who might ask questions given time. Not to mention that it's never safe to be associated with a man like him."

"Are you saying that I should stay away from him?" Not that Sherlock cared what Mycroft wanted him to do but it would be better to know where exactly his brother stood on the issue. There were enough ways to get away from under Mycroft's watchful eye if Sherlock knew that this was what he had to do.

"No. I am not blind, Sherlock. I have noticed how your friendship with Moriarty has helped you to get back on your feet without having to relate on other means. I won't stop you from spending time with him if you promise me to be careful."

Sherlock couldn't keep the surprise from showing on his face at Mycroft's words but somehow he managed to scowl nonetheless. "What does being careful entail? I am certainly not going to allow a horde of bodyguards to follow me everywhere."

"Rest assured, brother mine I am not in the habit of making the same mistake twice."

They both took a moment to think back to the beginning of Sherlock's career as a consulting detective when Mycroft had sent his men to look after him. It had ended in a minor security scandal as Sherlock had made certain practices of MI6 public.

"I only want you to be clever about meeting with Moriarty - if that's what you want. While the public doesn't know his face - or even that he exists - certain people in high positions do. I don't want you to become a pawn in a play for power if they become aware of your role in Moriarty's life."

"And what is my role in his life?" Sherlock kept his tone challenging but even he could hear the honest question in his words. As much as he enjoyed the banter and flirting with Jim he still wasn't sure where he stood with him. It was safe to say that Sherlock liked Jim and if pressed he would admit to seeing him as a friend but... was it the same for Jim? And if so did Jim want more than friendship from him or did Sherlock read too much into their exchanges? If anyone could answer all of these questions it would be Mycroft. Not that Sherlock would ever admit to it - not even under torture - but his brother was even better at spotting clues and connecting the dots than he was.

Mycroft kept quiet for a long time and then only shook his head. "It's too early to tell. Just... be careful with your heart."

"What's that supposed to mean?" But even as Sherlock asked the question he knew that he wouldn't get an answer from his brother. Mycroft was back to his annoying cryptic self.

"Just head my words and take a look at the case."

"Why?"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you, Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped but got himself back under control a second later. "You can't solve cases that Moriarty sends your way in quick succession or people will get suspicious. Besides," Mycroft gathered his umbrella and turned to leave, "I think that this case is right up your alley. Have fun, brother mine."

"Don't bother to come back," Sherlock called after Mycroft and only stopped glaring when he heard the engine of a car start in front of the house. He sighed and fell back into his armchair. His eyes landed on the folder that Mycroft had left on the coffee table and for a moment he was tempted to simply burn it but then thought better of it. As annoying as it was, Mycroft was probably right about certain powerful people watching Jim's and his every move. And while Sherlock couldn't care less about what they thought of him, he didn't fancy playing into their hands in any way. Besides if Mycroft truly didn't want Sherlock to take another case from Jim so soon then the one his brother had brought him had to be good. Sherlock reached for the folder and immerged himself in the case.

Two hours later Sherlock's mind had already come up with five possible explanations for the murder of one Ivy Greenhill. His brother hadn't promised too much. This case was exactly what he had hoped for. Sherlock only took the time to send off a short text to Jim before he hurried to his room to pack.

Got a case from my brother. Going to Sussex to solve it. - SH


	9. Caring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There isn't much to say only: Jim is back! ;) Enjoy!

### Caring

He was missing something.

But what?

What?

Sherlock grabbed his hair with both hands and pulled at the curls. A sharp stab of pain pierced through the haze in his mind but it didn't help him to find the last puzzle piece. "It has to be there. Where is it? What am I not seeing?"

A growl left his lips and he threw himself in the armchair in front of the fireplace only to jump up a second later to start pacing again. The owner of the hostel would probably complain about the worn carpet when Sherlock left but that was a problem for another time. Right now, he had to solve a murder and he just... couldn't. When he had first arrived at the sleepy village in the middle of nowhere - at least that was how it had felt to him - Sherlock had believed that the case would be easily solved. A few interesting deductions and - hopefully - a fight before he would catch the murderer... or so he had thought. As it was the case had turned out to be closer to being an eight on his rating scale than the six to seven Sherlock had believed it to be at first. Sadly not because it held layers upon layers of interesting secrets to reveal but rather because he was stuck. Sherlock had exhausted all of his ideas and no he had to start again from scratch.

His eyes fell on the opened folder and the picture of the victim. Ivy Greenhill had been found dead in the kitchen of the house that she had rented a year ago. She had been stabbed to death and left lying in a pool of her own blood. So far, there was nothing special about the case at first look. An argument gone wrong or a robbery, at least that was what the local constable had assumed. Incompetent, the whole lot of them.

While Ms. Greenhill had suffered various stab wounds from one of her own kitchen knives, these wounds hadn't killed her. No, the fatal wound had been a well-directed stab to her heart with a combat knife from the look of it. Frustratingly Sherlock hadn't been able to tell exactly which model had been used seeing as the various stab wounds around the primer injury made it hard to tell. He had only been able to limit the number of possible used combat knives insignificantly. It had probably been a model from Eickhorn, a German company that was specialised in the making of combat knives. Their products weren't only favoured by the Bundeswehr but also by the US military and the Canadian Military and other countries. Sadly that information gave him less to work with than Sherlock had initially believed. No one from the village was a registered owner of a combat knife but seeing as even John had managed to keep his illegal gun, it was likely that someone else had done the same with a knife. 

Therein lay the problem though. The only person who had a military background in this village was a ninety-five year old man who was half-blind. And while his daughter or his grandson might have physically be able to stab Ms. Greenhill they didn't have a motive to kill her. Actually, no one in the village had a motive to kill her as far as Sherlock had figured out in the four days that he had already spent here. Ivy Greenhill had been a thirty-two year old architect who had only moved to the village a year ago because she had got the job to renovate the old church. Due to a controversy about whether the church should be modernized or not her work had taken longer than she had originally planned. 

Sherlock had looked at the dispute in the hopes that someone had held a grudge against the architect for her plans for the church but it had been a dead-end. While the villagers had argued amongst themselves, no one had attacked Ms. Greenhill. Probably because she hadn't taken any side in the argument. And why should she? Sherlock had found out that she got paid for her stay at the village for as long as it took to renovate the church so there was no reason why she should hurry the work along. Expect maybe for the fact that the project was utterly boring and very low-profile. None of her colleagues back in London had wanted to take it on so that crossed envy from Sherlock's list of possible motives.

Only one of her colleagues - a William Patterson - had even been in contact with her in the last year. In fact, he was staying at the other hostel in the village at the moment. He had arrived a couple of days before Ms. Greenhill's death and while that made him suspicious Sherlock hadn't found a reason why he should kill her. Like his other colleagues, he hadn't been interested in her job but only in Ms. Greenhill herself. Still, their relationship - or rather affair - wasn't a motive to kill her either. Neither one of them had been otherwise attached - so no potential for blackmailing there - and everyone that had known about them had agreed that they had only been dating casually. So while the various stabbing wounds suggested a crime of passion, the well-directed fatal stab to the heart suggested a calculated crime committed by someone clever enough to at least fool the local police force. Sherlock would think that there were enough moderately intelligent people living in the village but seeing as no one had a motive or possessed the necessary knowledge to kill with such precision...

A knock on the door interrupted Sherlock's manic pacing.

"No!" He snapped loudly in the direction of the door. It probably was the son of the owner again. Mrs. Carter was of the opinion that Sherlock needed to eat more and had taken it upon herself to send Michael up with various dishes at least once a day. No matter how often Sherlock told her that he didn't eat during a case, he was confronted with scrambled eggs and bacon or some sort of pie every day. After four days of not eating a single meal Mrs. Carter must have decided that she should be even more adamant about getting nourishment into him. This was the second visit of her son today and it was only nearing lunch time.

Another knock at the door.

"Room service," a voice that certainly didn't belong to Michael called from the other side of the door.

Sherlock's eyes widened. This couldn't be. He was supposed to be halfway across the world not here. Certain that his senses were playing a trick on him but curious nonetheless Sherlock opened the door.

"What...?"

"Surprise!" Jim flashed a big smile at him and pushed past Sherlock into the room.

Sherlock watched in bewilderment as Jim placed a duffle bag on one of the armchairs and then surveyed the room with a critical eye. Sherlock didn't have to follow his gaze to know that he was picking up on the fact that while Sherlock had lain on the bed, he hadn't slept since he had arrived here. It also had to be obvious to Jim that Sherlock had only packed for a couple of days and had needed to give his clothes to Mrs. Carter to wash.

There were other things Jim could pick up but Sherlock didn't focus on them. Instead he turned his whole attention to his friend. He was dressed in a jeans, a blue polo shirt and a leather jacket. The outfit didn't stand out amongst the villagers and yet it wasn't completely unremarkable either. The way the jeans clung to Jim's legs was sure to be noticed by someone. Not to mention how the leather jacket gave him an adventurous touch while his brown eyes made him appear soft and harmless. The single women - and some of the married ones as well - would be all over him as soon as they saw him... and some of the men as well. 

The thought pierced at his heart painfully and Sherlock almost growled at that. He hadn't got the time to analyse his feelings for Jim further but he was aware enough to understand that he was right on his way to falling in love with him. If it hadn't happened already. And wasn't that the most dangerous thing Sherlock had ever done? Falling in love with a criminal mastermind sounded like the best way to get his heart broken especially seeing as he still didn't know where Jim stood on the whole issue. His flirty texts spoke of interest but seeing as this was still Jim Moriarty Sherlock couldn't take anything at face value.

"Why are you here?"

Jim turned around to face Sherlock with a pout. "Here I am after I have gone to great lengths to finish my business negotiations as fast as possible to come to your side and that's how you greet me." Jim sighed theatrically and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "If you expected me to cry happy tears you are crazier than I thought."

Jim's lips twitched in amusement as he took a step towards Sherlock until there was barely an inch left between them. Dark eyes locked with his as Jim tilted his head upwards to look at Sherlock. His tongue flickered out to lick his lips and Sherlock found himself watching the movement with more interest than it warranted. 

"I didn't expect tears but maybe," Jim's hand stroked over Sherlock's arm as he leaned forward and up on his tiptoes. Sherlock could only stand frozen as Jim got even closer to him. Their chests were almost touching and as for their lips... Sherlock felt himself tilt his head without conscious thought to meet Jim halfway. Warm breath ghosted over his lips and sent a shudder of anticipation down his spine. Just one more second and...

"Mr. Holmes!" A knock accompanied the calling of his name and Sherlock jumped away from Jim like he had been electrocuted. Something undefined that looked like hurt or regret flickered through dark eyes and Sherlock opened his mouth to apologize when another knock sounded.

"Mr. Holmes."

With a growl and a curse on his lips Sherlock marched to the door and tore it open to find Michael with a tea-cart and a nervous expression. "Your boyfriend told me to bring up some sandwiches and tea," the boy hurried to explain before Sherlock could let loose a stream of chosen words. "Mum was so happy that you were finally eating something and that you had someone with you," Michael blushed as he peeked behind Sherlock at Jim, "that she got a little carried away."

Sherlock glanced at the plate that held various sandwiches and the small stock pot that seemed to be filled to the brink with soup and understood what Michael meant. Even without taking the sweet pastries and two pots of tea into consideration. 

"I shall just leave it here, yes?"

Before Sherlock could reply Michael had already hurried away and Sherlock was left to push the tea-cart into the room. "Obviously, my boyfriend ordered that. Any idea who that might be?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Jim. 

"It was the simplest way to explain why I wanted to come to your room without you knowing about it." Jim winked at him as he walked over to the tea-cart to serve himself a cup of tea.  
A shiver ran down Sherlock's body when Jim brushed past him and he recalled the almost-kiss only minutes ago.

"Jim," Sherlock started although unsure of what he wanted to say but he didn't even get the chance to think of a way to finish his sentence as Jim held a sandwich under his nose. "Eat!"

Their gazes met for a second before Jim hastily turned his head away to take a sip of his tea. The contact was long enough though for Sherlock to understand that Jim was avoiding the topic of the almost kiss. Anger and hurt flared in Sherlock at the realisation. He had wanted this kiss but it seemed like it hadn't been the same for Jim. Oh yes, the criminal mastermind had obviously intended to kiss him in that moment but seeing as he was adamant not to mention it, he obviously regretted that it had even come so far. Sherlock clenched his hands at his side and turned his head away from the sandwich that was dangled under his nose. "I am not eating while I am on a case."

"Oh please, I thought you had given up on the myth that digestion slows you down. It's bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," Sherlock snarled back and glared at Jim. "I have a case to solve and I don't have time for interruptions." The words came out harsher than intended and Sherlock almost took them back when Jim's eyes narrowed down to slits. "Really?! It doesn't look like you got very far even without interruptions otherwise you would have solved the case already. A little murder in the countryside sounds easy enough for me to solve or have you lost your touch, Sherly?!"

Jim's voice was dripping with venom and Sherlock tried to focus on that. He tried to push the anger at the insult to his intelligence to the forefront of his mind and to come up with a good counter but... it was of no use.

"Sherly!" The mocking voice of his peers echoed through his mind. "That's a cute name for a girl. Much too cute for you but we are nice guys, Sherly."

"Our cute, little Sherly!"

"Oh are you going to cry? You girls are always crying. But there is no need to cry. We really like your new name, Sherly."

"Sherlock?" The soft voice with the Irish accent jerked him out of his memories and Sherlock came back to the present. He blinked down at Jim who had a hand placed on his upper arm and was looking at him with worried eyes. Heat rose in Sherlock's cheeks when he realised that he had not only gone lost in his Mind Palace by accident but also that his eyes were wet and probably glistening with unshed tears.

Sherlock tore away from Jim's hand and stalked over to the window which overlooked the areaway of the hostel. It took him a few minutes of deep and calculated breaths before he had himself back under control and was certain that he wouldn't embarrass himself. He still remained with his back turned to the room though, unwilling to face Jim who had come up to stand behind him.

"I am sorry." Jim's voice was much closer than Sherlock had anticipated. He tensed when a warm hand squeezed his shoulder but didn't brush it off this time. "I should have realised that you aren't a fan of nicknames."

A wry smile turned Sherlock's lips upwards. "And yet you still managed to find the one that sounds like a girl's name."

Only a second after the words had left his mouth Sherlock gasped in surprise as he was spun around with more force than he would have expected from Jim. He was just about to push his friend away when he met Jim's almost desperate face and froze. "I wasn't using it as a girl's name and it also wasn't my intention to bring bad memories back to you. I am sorry." Jim sighed and bit down on his lower lip. "I guess we are both pretty tense right now." His hand fell away from Sherlock's arm as Jim took a step back. "It was a bad idea to come here while you are working on a case."

"Then why did you come?" The question came out more challenging than intended and Sherlock cursed himself inwardly for it as he watched how Jim's face fell. His friend didn't look like the criminal mastermind behind an international organisation as he met Sherlock's searching gaze with tired eyes. "I thought it would be a good idea at the time." Jim's Adam's apple popped up and down as he swallowed hard. "You have been working on this case for four days now and I wanted to make sure that you are fine."

"I can look after myself," Sherlock shot back without a second thought.

Jim's shoulders sagged as he deflated visibly. "I know. I just... I will just go then."

Sherlock watched frozen to the spot as Jim turned to leave. He couldn't let him go like this. If Jim left now then there was no guarantee that they would ever meet again. Jim could just decide that this wasn't worth the trouble and turn his back on Sherlock for good.

"But he called you by this stupid nickname."

Sherlock shook his head at the reminder. It had been a misunderstanding. Jim hadn't known how this particular name would affect him. His reaction afterwards had been proof enough of that. They had both overreacted. It was as simple as that.

"Wait!" Sherlock called out when Jim took his duffle bag and moved for the door. He crossed the space between them and stepped in front of Jim who looked up at him warily. "What now?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and locked eyes with Jim. "I am sorry, too. I was frustrated with the case and I took it out on you."

Jim put the duffle bag down at his feet and took a careful step closer to Sherlock. "Apology accepted. I should have warned you of my arrival."

"No," Sherlock placed both of his hands on Jim's shoulders and felt an answering touch on his back, "It was meant as a surprise and I am happy that you are here."

Jim took another step forward and Sherlock's hands moved from his shoulders to his back. "So, you did miss me?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered as they closed the last inches between them until their bodies were pressed flush together.

"As much as I did miss you?" Jim had to crane his neck to look up at him and Sherlock noted with relief that a smile had chased away the defeated look in the dark eyes. He could only nod since the lump in his throat was too thick to get any words past it. God, but it felt absolutely right to be so close to Jim.

It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that Sherlock exhaled when Jim leaned his head against his chest and Sherlock was free to hold him close in his arms. Disappointment because the moment had been filled to the brink with tension that had screamed for a kiss and relief because this was exactly why a kiss would have been a bad idea. Yes, it would have been nice to feel Jim's lips on his but they had just got over one misunderstanding turned argument, they didn't have to risk another one right away. Besides, while Jim was relaxed in Sherlock's arms there was no reason to assume that he would have wanted to kiss him. Oh, he had certainly felt the tension between them but this wasn't telling if he had wanted to act on it. Judging from how he was content to just hug with Sherlock, Jim probably wasn't interested in anything beyond that... with him.

"Oh and why did he almost kiss you when he arrived here? And why was he so hurt when it looked like you didn't want to have him around?"

The questions were easy to answer: Jim wasn't only as exhausted as Sherlock was but he was also as inexperienced in friendships as Sherlock was himself. They had both read too much into each other actions that was all. Sherlock pushed away any more doubts or questions from his mind and instead just focused on the warm feeling of Jim in his arms as he felt his own body relax. He couldn't say how long they had stood like that when Jim stirred and blinked up at Sherlock. "What now?"

Sherlock sighed and allowed himself one more second to enjoy Jim's warmth before he let his arms fall to the side and stepped back. "Now we eat something and then we nap."

Jim's eyes widened in mock disbelief. "Sherlock Holmes suggests to eat and rest during a case?! Should I be worried?"

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes as he grabbed a sandwich and took a huge bit from it. "You were right when you said that I was stuck on the case. Maybe it's time for a new approach."

"An approach that involves sandwiches and tea?" Jim raised an eyebrow but helped himself to some soup after he had wolfed down his own sandwich.

"And sleep," Sherlock added before he gulped down his third cup of tea and hurried in the direction of the bathroom to change into his pyjamas.

"Where do I sleep?" Jim called after him.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder but hurried to turn away again as a blush threatened to take over his face. "The bed is big enough for the both of us."

He didn't check how his reply was received and closed the door to the bathroom behind himself. Either Jim would sleep in the bed with him or he could take one of the armchairs. Sherlock didn't care one way or another. He didn't. Really.


	10. Teamwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll like this chapter since I had lots of fun writing it. Let me know what you think. Enjoy! :)
> 
> Btw, the chapter count only went up because I miscounted the last time. Nothing has changed about the story. ^^

### Teamwork

He got it!

Sherlock came fully awake at once when his mind presented him with a detail that he had overlooked until now. A detail which could hold the solution to the case. Maybe sleeping during a case wasn't such a bad investment if it meant that his mind felt so refreshed afterwards.

Sherlock put the idea away for later consideration and made to get up and follow this new trace. At least that had been the plan until he realised that his movement was severely limited thanks to one consulting criminal. They had started their sleeping arrangements on opposite sides of the bed but obviously Jim had migrated towards Sherlock in his sleep. Either the mattress wasn't completely even and Jim had simply rolled to him or he was one of these people who cuddled in their sleep. Judging by the arm that was thrown over Sherlock's chest and the leg that pinned down both of his, Sherlock assumed it was the latter. He only wondered if Jim would have got so close to anyone he shared a bed with or if his sleeping mind had been drawn to Sherlock specifically.

"God, if you spurt such romantic nonsense any longer you will turn into a poet." The voice sounded exactly like Mycroft as it sneered at him. Sherlock closed the door to his Mind Palace in his brother's face and got comfortable again as he considered what to do next. 

Judging from the light that filtered through the window, it was late afternoon or early evening which meant that he had slept about four to five hours. It should be sufficient for now especially seeing as Sherlock didn't have more time for sleeping if he wanted his plan to succeed. A plan that was only half formed and which would need some investigations to get fully formulated. One reason more for Sherlock to get up but... somehow he was unwilling to do so. His eyes flickered to Jim who was sleeping on his stomach with his face turned in Sherlock's direction while still pinning him to the bed. Of course, Sherlock could have simply thrown Jim off to get up but he was loath to use such drastic measures. Especially when Jim was looking so young and vulnerable in his sleep.

Sherlock traced the lines of his face with his eyes. His forehead was relaxed and free of wrinkles. Long, dark eyelashes rested on pale skin and made Jim appear even younger. As did his half opened mouth as he snored quietly - and drooled onto the pillow. Sherlock swallowed against the sudden urge to draw Jim close and hold him in his arms to protect him from the world. It was a stupid notion seeing as his friend was one of the most dangerous criminals in history and had more power at his disposal than probably even Mycroft. Still Sherlock couldn't keep himself from stroking a wayward strand of silky hair from Jim's forehead. His friend's nose twitched in his sleep and Sherlock repeated the motion to provoke a content sigh from Jim. The hand that was thrown over Sherlock's chest tightened in his shirt before it relaxed again and sleepy dark eyes blinked up at him.

"Hi handsome," Jim greeted him with a lazy smile. "Slept well?"

Sherlock could only nod dumbstruck as his eyes were drawn to Jim's lips when a tongue darted out to wet them. It would be so easy to just lean a little to his left to get a taste of Jim. A couple of inches was all that was needed.

Sherlock's body moved of its own accord as he turned towards Jim and his lips had almost reached their goal when Jim sat up abruptly and created more distance between them. It took Sherlock a second of blinking stupidly at the empty pillow next to him before his mind registered what had just happened and he looked up to meet the guarded gaze of his friend. Jim licked his lips once more, glanced to the side and then back at Sherlock with too big a grin on his face. "I should keep you around. You make a surprisingly willing plush toy."

"This sounds like you collect them," Sherlock returned as he sat up slowly in bed and raised an eyebrow at Jim who merely shrugged. "I call a few furry friends my own. They made great bed companions. No snoring or wriggling about at night. I will introduce you at some point."

Jim winked at him as he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. Sherlock was left staring at the covers as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Firstly Jim had prevented Sherlock from kissing him by sitting up but a second later he had openly flirted with him. It didn't make any sense. Of course, there was the distinct possibility that Jim hadn't realised what Sherlock's intentions had been and he hadn't stopped the kiss from happening on purpose. But seeing how observant the consulting criminal was, Sherlock doubted that. Which only left the explanation that Jim hadn't wanted to be kissed... by him. The thought hurt but Sherlock could accept that. It would just be easier if Jim wasn't sending such mixed signals. If he didn't want to kiss Sherlock why flirt with him?

He still hadn't solved the puzzle by the time Jim returned from the bathroom and Sherlock pushed the question aside for the time being. As soon as he had solved the case, there would be time to question the confusing behaviour of his friend. And Sherlock was confident that the police would be able to arrest the suspect before dawn.

"We need to go to the church," Sherlock called to Jim as he jumped out of bed and collected his clothes to get dressed.

"We?" Jim glanced at him over the rim of his cup of tea and Sherlock paused for a second in his movements. Somehow he had assumed that Jim would want to accompany him. After all his friend had come to visit him straight from the airport - as far as Sherlock had deduced - therefore it had appeared logical to him that Jim would want to spend time with him. Apparently though he had been wrong about that.

"Nevermind." Sherlock hurried to get dressed and kept his back turned to Jim the whole time. "I will be back in a couple of hours. Enjoy your tea."

"No, wait!" Sherlock glanced up from where he sat on the bed to tie his shoes when Jim put his cup down and retrieved his own clothes as well. "I didn't say that I wouldn't accompany you. I always love to see you in action. I just wasn't sure if I was welcome."

Sherlock blinked slowly as he noticed the insecurity mirrored in Jim's eyes before it was hidden away by a smile again. There was so much he could say in reply to this statement. He could assure Jim that he was always welcome to accompany him on a case or he could make a joke about Jim becoming his new sidekick. In the end Sherlock settled on an impatient huff as he shrugged on his suit jacket and turned to Jim who was still busy with his shoes. "Just hurry up we don't have all day."

"Yes, Sir!" Jim gave him a mock salute and Sherlock only rolled his eyes at him before they were finally out of the door. It was time to catch a killer.

OOO

"I don't understand why you need to look at the wall, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes and ignored the pastor as he kneeled down in front of the damaged wall in a side aisle. He would have preferred not to involve the man but seeing as the church had already been locked for the day, Sherlock didn't have another option... except for breaking and entering. Though seeing as he was hoping to find some essential evidence here it was wiser to be officially permitted inside the church instead of having to explain later how he had managed to find the evidence.

"This part of the wall has been renovated only ten years ago, is that correct?" Sherlock addressed the pastor as he ran his fingers over the rough stone.

"That's correct but why do you need to know that?"

"You didn't find it strange that this wall looks worse than the parts of the church that haven't seen a craftsman in the last fifty years?" Sherlock sneered and then ignored the sputtering of the pastor when he finally found what he had been looking for. A gap between the stones, barely wide enough to put his hand inside. He carefully felt around the hole until his fingers tasted an unevenness in the stone. It felt like something had been carved into the stone but Sherlock couldn't tell by touch alone what it said. At least not with enough certainty to be of any use for his deductions.

"You could use your phone," Jim who had remained silent until then suggested. When Sherlock only turned his head to frown at him his friend sighed. "It has a camera and a flash, doesn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as the obvious solution was presented to him and he wasted no time to put his phone into the hole and take a few pictures. It took some manoeuvring until one of the photos finally showed what had been graved into the stones. "Graduating class 2001 - chemistry study group," Sherlock read out loud and then turned to the confused looking pastor. "Where can I find the name and addresses of the students that graduated in that year?"

"You will have to ask the school's secretary but may I ask why...?"

"No, you may not." Sherlock pocketed his phone and marched out of the church with Jim by his side.

"So, the students hid something in the church that led to the murder of this woman?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No idea to be honest. I just recalled that part of the wall had looked strange when I had visited the church for the first time. It was a hunch but it looks promising... and I don't have any other trace to follow." Sherlock would have never revealed such information to John, he realised after the words had left his mouth. With the doctor he had always wanted to appear mysterious and brilliant but Sherlock knew that there was no need to act like this around Jim. The consulting criminal knew very well that even genius had its limits and he wouldn't judge Sherlock for it.

"Sounds good enough to me." They shared a smile and then walked the short distance to the school in comfortable silence.

OOO

"I can't give you the information about the graduate students." The secretary crossed her arms over her chest as she frowned at Sherlock over her glasses. "The information is confidential."

"Oh come on!" Sherlock groaned in frustration and barely refrained from slamming his hands on the desk of the woman. "What should someone do with such information?!"

The secretary's frown only deepened at that. "I should ask you that. What do you want with the information? I know that you are trying to solve poor Ivy's murder but I can't imagine how the data of the graduate students from 2001 could help you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to correct the secretary and tell her that there was a high chance that both things were connected when Jim beat him to it. "You are right, Mrs. Evans. It's got nothing to do with the murder."

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at Jim who wore a slightly insecure expression on his face as he leaned forward to stage whisper to Mrs. Evans. "It's actually a family matter with which my friend agreed to help me. You see my Mum," Jim swallowed as if he was holding back tears, "She died a couple of months ago. In her will she arranged for the house to be split between my sister and I but... I didn't even know that I had a sister until then." Jim sniffed and Mrs. Evans' eyes grew softer by the minute. Sherlock was torn between scoffing and applauding his friend's acting skills.

"My Mum got pregnant a few years after she had had me but my father didn't want her to have the child. He was very... insistent about it." Jim's voice wavered just so that every listener had to realise just how horrible his father had been. "She ran away to my aunt. Later she told my father that the child had been stillborn but that was lie. My baby sister was alive. Sadly, my aunt couldn't look after her and so she was given up for adoption. I don't know if my Mum knew where she lived when she died. In her letter to me, she only mentioned that her daughter - she called her Mary - had graduated middle school here and that she liked chemistry."

Jim wiped at his eyes and smiled thankfully at the secretary as she handed him a tissue. "I don't even know how my Mum knew that. I don't know if my sister knows that she was adopted and that... that she has an older brother. But I need to know. I want to meet her and..." A sob was torn from Jim's lips and he pressed the tissue against his eyes as he pretended to be embarrassed by his sentimental outburst. Sherlock barely managed to arrange his features into a mask of sympathy and sadness as he patted Jim's shoulder and hoped that he wouldn't give them away by laughing out loud.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Evans sounded like she would need a tissue herself soon. "In this case I think I can make an exception." A few minutes later they were the proud owners of a list with all graduate students from 2001 and a pack of tissues. They made it out of the school with their subdued expressions still intact but burst out into laughter as soon as they had rounded the corner.

"God, that was crazy!" Sherlock shook with laughter as he leaned against a tree and watched Jim gasp for breath as tears of mirth ran down his face.

"You mean brilliant," Jim snickered and dapped at his eyes with one of the tissues.

"I admit your story got her to cooperate very fast."

"No one is immune to such a sad story." Jim's expression changed from jolly to heartbroken in a matter of seconds. "And my poor sister." He blew his nose for effect and then winked at Sherlock. "Now let's see how far your hunch gets us."

It took Sherlock a second to recover from Jim's fast changing moods and take out the list with the former students. Thankfully only 15 of the 65 students that had graduated from this school had taken part in the chemistry study group and seeing as they only needed to get into touch with one of them it shouldn't take too long.

OOO

"Do you have any idea how late it is?"

"Yes, I do." Sherlock pushed past William Patterson into the room he had rented at the inn. "It's only gone past ten in the evening. I wouldn't exactly call that late."

Sherlock smirked when Patterson glared at Jim and him before he sighed in resignation and closed the door behind them. "Of course, you are right," Patterson agreed easily as he moved over to his bed where a half-packed suitcase sat. "You see, it's just that I have an early train back to London to catch tomorrow and after this horrible thing with Ivy I haven't slept well in days."

"Why did you stay then?" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and smiled challenging at Patterson. "According to your own testimony you came here to, I quote: spend a few nice days with Ivy. After she was killed what could you gain from staying here?"

Patterson sputtered in disbelief. "How can you ask that Mr. Holmes? She was a dear friend of mine. Of course I had to stay after she was so brutally murdered."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You were neither useful to the local police force nor did you need to organize anything in Ms. Greenhill name seeing as this task was picked up by her sister. So, I ask you again Mr. Patterson: why did you stay here?"

"I," Patterson took a stumbling step back towards his suitcase before he caught himself. "I don't have to tell you anything, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. He hated it when they tried to play dumb. Especially after he had spent the better part of four hours trying to get into contact with one of the former students until he had been successful.

"Don't try my patience," Sherlock growled but when he didn't get a reply he huffed in annoyance. "Fine, then I shall tell you why you stayed. You wanted to search the church for more hidden treasures."

"I don't know what you are talking about." Patterson's eyes flickered minutely to the open suitcase. "I suggest you leave now before I call the police."

"No need, they will be here in another ten minutes. I just thought it would be nicer to have a chat with you first." Sherlock gave him a tight-lipped smile. "You see, I had an interesting conversation with Emilie Miller this evening."

"I don't know any Emilie Miller."

"Obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes at Patterson's stupidity. "She was a graduate student at this school in 2001 with a huge interest in chemistry. Her study group and her decided to leave something memorable for someone to find in a few years time. They worked on a project together to make paper appear like it's already a few hundred years old. A very simple experiment actually but they weren't content with only getting a good grade for their work. No," Sherlock stepped closer to Patterson until he could loom over him. "They copied a piece of music written by Henry Purcell - a famous English composer of the 17th century - to one of their papers and put it in a casket. They then hid said casket in part of the church's wall when it was renovated in the same year. The students hoped that it would stay there hidden for at least a century and confuse someone in the future. There was no way for them to know that the craftsmen were very sloppy and that this wall - along with the whole church - would have to undergo renovations again only ten years later. It would still have been a harmless prank if Ms. Greenhill hadn't noticed something hidden in the wall when she inspected the damage. She thought she had stumbled over a treasure." Sherlock paused for dramatic effect and noticed with satisfaction that Patterson's face had paled at his description of events. Time for the final blow. "Your friend told you about her discovery and you decided that it was worth killing her for it."

"No, that's not true." Patterson took a step away from Sherlock.

"Yes, you did. Just tell me one thing," Sherlock cocked his head to the side in curiosity. "How did you get your hands on the combat knife and how did you manage to kill her with one stab to the heart? I admit I am a little impressed that you thought of trying to hide the wound by stabbing her numerous times with her own kitchen knife."

"I... I bought it on a jumble sale!"

Sherlock barely had the time to register the change in Patterson's behaviour when he reached behind himself and jumped at him. In the hands of a trained soldier the attack could have been fatal as it was the knife only tore the fabric of Sherlock's shirt over his chest as he turned sideways to sidestep the knife. It clattered to the ground a second later when Jim drove his elbow into Patterson's midriff and then planted a punch to his chin for good measure.

"What?" Jim had the nerve to ask when he kicked the knife aside and rubbed the knuckles of his left hand. "I hate amateurs that just happen to get lucky."

"Stabbing someone in the heart from behind by sheer, dumb luck... I didn't expect that," Sherlock mused. "And yet it's obvious that you don't have the first clue on how to handle a knife."

Patterson only groaned in pain where he cowered on the floor and Sherlock sighed in disappointment. He had expected more from this case. In the end it had all only been a big misunderstanding. He took one step towards the suitcase where he suspected the false sheet of music to be hidden but hissed in pain when the fabric of his shirt rubbed over his injury. A blood stain had formed on the white fabric and while Sherlock was certain that the wound wasn't life threatening or even all that deep, it still hurt like hell.

"You are hurt." If the statement had been delivered in any other tone of voice Sherlock would have merely rolled his eyes at the obviousness of it. As it was he barely managed to prevent Jim from jumping Patterson when the cold rage in his friend's voice registered with Sherlock. "Stop! It's fine. Just a minor scratch!"

Jim struggled against his hold until a pained hiss escaped past Sherlock's lips when the movement put too much strain on the wound. His friend stopped his attempts to get to Patterson but still glared at him. "Mark my words if this wound leaves so much as a faint scar then I will make sure that you suffer for it until the last day of your pathetic life."

A shudder ran down Sherlock's spine at Jim's threat but it was for a completely different reason than Patterson's. God, but Sherlock had always loved danger and Jim was practically the personification of it. 

"You can make sure that it doesn't scar," Sherlock whispered in Jim's ear as he heard the police finally arrive at the inn. Jim didn't even raise an eyebrow at that but merely nodded without suggesting Sherlock see a doctor to get stitched up.

Sherlock glanced at his watch when the first police officer entered the room: half past ten. Hopefully they would get back to their room before midnight. Not only did Sherlock want Jim to treat his wound but there was also finally time to address the obvious tension between them.

Sherlock forced a smile on his face as he gestured for the police officers to enter. "Gentlemen, let me explain to you what happened here..."


	11. Gentle Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual but I had to cut it where I did. I know, you'll hate me for it.^^  
> By the way, the medical equipment described in this chapter exists and I hope I give a good description of how it's used in this chapter.
> 
> Happy Birthday to **DalekLiz**! Congratulations on turning 18!*throws confetti*

### Gentle Care

"I can't believe that they nearly insisted on us giving our written statements right away," Sherlock complained as they made their way through the barely lit floor of the hostel to their room. The police officers had wasted one hour with stupid questions before they had finally understood that Sherlock had caught a murderer for them. They had been even worse than the idiots from the Yard and that said a lot in Sherlock's opinion. It was a wonder that they managed to get up in the morning without help.

"If you had shown them your injury instead of hiding it under your coat they would have let us leave sooner," Jim reminded him as they finally reached their destination.

"And then spent the night at a local ER with overtired doctors that are more interested in why I am taking testosterone than in closing my wound." Sherlock shuddered at the mere notion of such an idea. He had spent enough times at hospitals to have developed an absolute dislike for them. While most nurses and doctors were competent but annoying - at least in Sherlock's experience - there was always someone who started to question his gender. He had lost count of how often a health professional had asked him when he intended to undergo bottom surgery or have a hysterectomy when he had only come to them for stitches. They always looked doubtful when he told them - if he deemed it necessary to answer their questions - that he didn't intend to undergo any of these surgeries. It was at that point that some of the doctors had asked him if he wanted to see a therapist. As if his reluctance to undergo major surgeries suggested that he wasn't a real man. Sherlock was very comfortable in his body, thank you very much.

"Looks like there are a few doctors that need a little scolding," Jim observed in his sing-song voice which was in stark contrast to the dark look in his eyes. Sherlock blinked and pushed the memories of former hospital visits to the cellar of his Mind Palace. He hadn't realised that they were already in their room nor had he been aware of talking out loud.

"You didn't lose control over your vocal records," Jim called to him from the direction of the bathroom where water was running. "But it was obvious from the look on your face in addition to our former topic of conversation what you were thinking about."

Sherlock frowned and then smiled at the reminder that Jim was just as observant as he himself was. It was a little confusing to be around someone who was as smart as he was but mostly refreshing since Sherlock didn't have to explain his every thought anymore.

"Take off your clothes!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Jim when his friend returned to the sitting area of the room and reached for a first aid kit that had been placed on the coffee table. A first aid kit that didn't belong to the hostel as far as Sherlock could tell. He leaned a little closer to get a better look at it and hissed in pain as the movement tore at his wound.

"Fine, not all of your clothes," Jim admitted with a teasing gleam in his eyes, "But you can't blame a guy for trying. Just," his voice turned serious again as he put on a pair of medical gloves, "Take off your coat and shirt. I can't take care of your wound if you are still completely dressed."

"Oh," Sherlock glanced down at himself. Somehow he had completely forgotten that he had asked Jim to dress his wound. It was likely due to the fact that it had stopped bleeding by now and only gave an occasional throb from time to time.

"Do you need help?" Only Jim managed to infuse a question with equal parts worry and innuendo, Sherlock mused absently as he shrugged out of his coat and turned to the buttons of his shirt. 

"You know, you could just rip it off... or let me do it," Jim mused playfully even as Sherlock noticed how dark eyes followed every one of his movements to gauge if he needed help.

"It's fine." Sherlock was finally able to shrug the shirt off his shoulders and hissed in pain as the movement aggravated the pain. He glanced down at the wound. The cut reached from right under his left clavicle to his sternum. And while it seemed shallow enough - it had stopped bleeding long ago - it was still long enough to warrant stitches.

"About six inches long," Jim observed critically and Sherlock nearly stumbled back at how close the voice of his friend sounded. In his haste to assign the treatment of the wound to Jim he had forgotten something important: In order to dress his wound, Jim would have to touch him. Sherlock swallowed at the thought. Not that he was adverse to Jim's touch but rather the opposite and that was exactly the problem. How was he supposed to handle...

"Sit down before you fall down!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest at the order and frowned when he sank down in the armchair a second later. He must be more exhausted than he had realised if his body was already moving on its own like this.

"That's not the in-house first aid kit of the hostel," Sherlock observed to focus on something besides Jim's eyes on his chest.

"Of course, it's not." Jim retrieved a bottle of skin disinfectant and a sterile wipe from the kit and stepped in front of Sherlock. "Your wound needs more than a few stripes of old tape and gauze."

"Then... Ouch!" Sherlock hissed at the burning pain when Jim sprayed the disinfectant generously on the cut.

"Sorry," Jim apologized much too cheerfully as he used the wipe to clear away the dried blood that surrounded the wound, "I forgot to mention that it might sting."

"Sadist," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth when Jim sprayed the wound with another dose. At least the discomfort distracted him from how close his friend was as he leaned over. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have taken responsibility for the reactions of his body when Jim carefully felt the edges of the wound with a gloved finger and then nodded satisfied. "Luckily the knife was sharp enough to make a clean cut. Clean but thankfully not too deep although what I have in mind would have worked for a deeper cut as well."

Sherlock frowned when Jim rummaged through the first aid kit until he retrieved a devise that looked strangely like hairclips that were stuck on a paper. "DermaClips." Jim informed him. "They are faster to apply than stitches and result in less scarring. Besides," Jim chuckled self-consciously, "If I would try to stitch you back up you would look like a butcher had tried to steal your heart afterwards."

Sherlock looked doubtfully at the clips. Somehow he felt wrong-footed after he had expected that Jim would use stitches to close the wound. A stupid idea like his friend had just pointed out to him but Sherlock had been used to having a doctor at his disposal and...

"Clips are much more pleasant than stitches," Jim interrupted Sherlock's inner monologue and after a short pause put one knee down on the seat cushion next to his leg. "Easier access." Jim's voice was only a low murmur and goose bumps rose all over Sherlock's body at the proximity of his friend. He wanted to point out to Jim that there was no need to press his knee against Sherlock's thigh and all but hover over his lap in order to reach the wound but the words wouldn't leave his mouth. "Relax, it's not going to hurt. Not as much as stitches do, at least."

A relieved sigh fell from Sherlock's lips that Jim had misread the reasons for his nervousness and he forced himself to relax back against the backrest.

"To answer your former question," Jim started conversationally as he placed the first clip at the edges of the cut, "I texted one of my employees to deliver a well-stocked first aid kit to this address."

Sherlock only nodded as he craned his neck to watch what exactly Jim was doing. The clips consisted of two pads that were linked by some kind of hinge with plastic strings attached to it. The pads were placed on each side of the wound so that the hinge looked like a bridge over the cut... or at least like a tiny bridge over part of the cut seeing as the clips were rather small. Sherlock estimated that Jim would need about eight of the clips to cover the cut.

"The clips are even used to close surgical incisions," Jim continued to talk to Sherlock as he placed the last clip on his skin, "So it's completely safe."

"I know."

His reply stopped Jim in his movements when he pressed against the pads on Sherlock's skin to make sure that they were secured. "You didn't even know about these clips until a few minutes ago."

"True." Sherlock allowed a small smile to show on his face and directed it at Jim. "But I trust you."

It was almost comically how Jim's mouth fell open at that as a look of surprise took over his face. Sherlock wondered if anyone had ever assured Jim of their trust in him. Considering that he led an international crime organisation it probably didn't happen often but Sherlock couldn't have been the first one to show trust into him. 

"Bad idea," Jim whispered in a pained voice and before Sherlock could disagree with him: "Hold still now!"

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle while Jim pulled one clip after another close. He hadn't promised too much when he had told Sherlock that it would be more pleasant than stitches. There was a slight pull at his skin when each clip was closed but aside from that Sherlock didn't feel any pain.

"Almost finished," Jim murmured as if to himself and retrieved a few more items from the first aid kit. A few minutes later Jim had cut the plastic strings that were attached to the hinge back and spread a layer of antibacterial ointment over the cut before he finished his work by covering it with gauze. "You are lucky that you don't have many hairs on your chest," Jim noted when he taped the last piece of gauze to Sherlock's skin. "Otherwise removing all of that tape would be torture."

Sherlock glanced down his chest where the wound was hidden behind a layer of white gauze. "How long do I have to keep it like this?"

"Always so impatient." Jim chuckled above him and with a sudden surge of heat Sherlock realised that his friend was still hovering above him with one knee placed on the armchair. "You can change the gauze daily or every other day. The clips remain on the cut for seven to ten days and then you can take them off; just pull at the pads to remove them. And don't get them wet. Does this answer your question and all the others you haven't asked yet?"

Sherlock could only nod since he was too busy taking in every detail of Jim's face so close to his own to have the mental capacity to form words. Jim's usually neatly combed hair was in disarray and Sherlock barely held back the urge to run his fingers through it. Instead he allowed his eyes to roam freely over his friend's face. The dark, intelligent eyes that crinkled at the corners when Jim was amused. The two days' worth of stubble on his cheeks that spoke of stress and little time to relax just like the dark circles under his eyes did.

Sherlock only realised that he had reached out with one hand when it caressed Jim's cheek. He didn't have the chance to memorize the exact texture of his friend's skin since he was distracted by the faint hint of colour that flushed Jim's cheeks at the contact. "Jim."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his friend's lips and back up to his eyes with obvious intent. There was an audible inhale from above him and then dry lips finally found his. Sherlock's eyes fell shut at the first contact of their lips and his hand moved from Jim's cheek to his neck to draw him closer. It was a tentative kiss. Tender and questioning as their lips moved together and they tasted each other for the first time. Sherlock's mouth fell open with a sigh when Jim nipped playfully at his lower lip and their kiss deepened when their tongues came into play. There was no way to tell how long their kiss had already lasted when Jim suddenly drew away from him and jumped up.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the unexpected movement and it took his sluggish brain a second to make sense of what he was seeing: Jim had grabbed his duffle bag in one hand and his gaze turned sideward towards Sherlock.

"What...?"

"Playtime is over, my dear." There was no emotion evident in Jim's voice as he delivered the cryptic statement and then vanished through the door without another word.

Sherlock remained frozen in the armchair for what felt like ages until his mind came back online and he exploded in a flurry of motions. "Jim!"

He raced to the door and threw it open - half expecting Jim to wait behind it and laugh at his panicked face - only to find the corridor dark and empty. Sherlock took a step forward intend on following Jim and taking him to task when the sound of a car engine being started outside dashed his hopes. Sherlock could only stare down at the rear lights of the black limousine by the time he made it to the window.

A chill ran down his exposed chest and he touched his hand lightly to the gauze that covered his wound and then to his lips which still held the memory of their kiss. Sherlock's hand fell limply to his side as he stared out into the still night. What the fuck had just happened?!


	12. Slow Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter isn't long either but the next two chapters will more than make up for it... not only in length. I promise. ;)
> 
> And a small announcement: I'll probably only be able to post the next chapter in the evening next Friday since I have to take an exam at my university.^^ Wish me luck! :)

### Slow Despair

What was that? - SH

Explain yourself. - SH

Fine, keep your secrets then. - SH

Sherlock scrolled through the texts he had sent to Jim in the hours following his little stunt. The conversation had been very one-sided seeing as his friend hadn't deemed it necessary to reply to these texts... or any of the numerous ones Sherlock had sent in the days afterwards.

I am finally home. The officers were extremely pissed that you left without giving your statement. - SH

I was just informed that your signed statement was delivered to the police station. Good to know that you reply to someone. - SH

Sherlock cringed at the passive-aggressive text he had sent when the constable had called him to apologize for accusing his friend of running away since they had got his statement. Obviously it had confirmed Sherlock's statement or something like that. Sherlock hadn't actually listened to the constable anymore after he had learned that Jim had found the time to write down his statement but not to reply to his texts. He had hung up on the constable but that had hardly mattered at the time. 

Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? It's not funny. - SH

Sherlock sighed as he stared at the text he had sent a couple of days after he had got home from the case. Actually, he had sworn to himself not to contact Jim again until he replied to Sherlock in any way but in the end he had caved. Though to no avail, there still hadn't been any texts from Jim. 

Is this some kind of game then? Are we playing a variation of tag combined with hide and seek? - SH

Fine, I accept the challenge. - SH

A game had been the only logical reason at the time as to why Jim wasn't replying to him. Playing games was just what the criminal mastermind enjoyed the most and Sherlock wasn't someone to shy away from a challenge. Still, it would have been more fun if Jim had given him some kind of sign... or if he hadn't run away right after they had kissed. Smiling bitterly at the memory of that intimate moment Sherlock looked back down at his phone. He had played the game and uncovered various branches of Jim's network in London but there still hadn't been a reaction from the man behind it all.

No Greek antiques for you anymore. Your salesmen are taking an infinite break behind bars. - SH

You have to find a new laundrette for your money. - SH

Illegal waste disposal, really?! - SH

Sherlock was certain that he had made a noticeable dent in Jim's organisation in London but there still hadn't been a reaction from him. Not even a tiny bomb in 221C or a delivery of severed body parts to acknowledge Sherlock's good work. At this point he would have been happy about a letter written in blood as cliché as that was. Everything would be better than this silence. A picture appeared in the course of their text conversation - or rather monologue - as Sherlock scrolled further down. It showed the front of the L'Astérie and underneath the picture was a simple enough question:

Dinner? - SH

Sherlock grimaced slightly at that pathetic attempt of getting Jim to talk to him. At least now he knew how The Woman had felt when Sherlock had ignored all of her texts. Nevermind that she was much more practiced in this kind of game than he was. For a few days Sherlock had even considered to contact her and ask for her help but he had soon dismissed this idea as stupid. If Jim didn't want to reply to him then there was nothing Irene could suggest that would help him. Besides, Sherlock wasn't willing to exchange the favour he had gained from her by saving her life for something so pedestrian. Also it would have been embarrassing to ask her for help. Sherlock could just imagine how Irene would have laughed her head off if she had learned that he was desperate to seduce Jim Moriarty. Maybe though she would have felt inclined to inform him of what Sherlock had only come to realise himself a couple of days ago: that it had all been just a game to Jim.

His hand clenched around his phone but relaxed again before Sherlock could do any damage to it. There was no need to take his anger out on an electronic devise. He had only himself to blame for falling for Jim's lies. A hollow laugh fell from Sherlock's lips and he barely managed to clamp his mouth shut before it could turn into a sob. There was no way that he would cry over Jim's betrayal. His so-called friend wasn't worth a single tear. No, he certainly wasn't! Sherlock pressed a hand to his mouth and bit down hard into its palm. The sharp sting distracted him momentarily from the burning pain that was turning his insides to dust.

"Burning," Sherlock whispered to himself and then barked out a joyless laugh. It was only a relief that Mrs. Hudson was away to visit her sister or the sound would have brought her to Sherlock's doorstep right away. And as much as Sherlock loved his landlady he was thankful that he hadn't needed to deal with her in the last week. Coming to terms with Jim's betrayal had been bad enough without her well-meant advices. It had been hard enough to deflect questions from Molly and Lestrade about his well-being and they weren't even sharing a house with him.

Sherlock admitted that after his frantic - and partly successful - investigation into Jim's network had failed to get him a reply from the criminal mastermind he had lost it a little. It would have been wiser not to throw a bunch of cold-case files at Lestrade when he had asked Sherlock if he was in need of a distraction. And he certainly shouldn't have beaten one of Molly's corpses to a bloody pulp with his riding crop if he hadn't wanted to call their attention to his state of mind. Thankfully Sherlock had been able to distract them from his own troubles by informing them that they would need a bigger flat in about seven months if they didn't want to banish their newborn to the storeroom. Admittedly it had been a cheap way to get them off his back but someone had needed to let Molly know that she was pregnant. And seeing as both parents-to-be had been thrilled - if a little surprised - by the news Sherlock didn't see that he had done any harm. At least they were happy.

"As if you ever really had a chance at happiness with Jim, you stupid boy." 

The small smile that had turned his lips upwards at the remembered joy in Molly's and Lestrade's faces vanished when the snide voice of his own brother echoed through his Mind Palace and reminded him of his mistakes. Or rather the one very specific mistake of trusting Jim with anything. 

"... be careful with your heart," Mycroft had advised him but Sherlock had been too stupid to listen to the only good advice his brother had ever given him. Instead, like the fool that he was, he had served his heart to Jim on a silver platter. To the man who had assured him that he would "burn the heart out of him."

Sherlock sneered at his own naiveté even as tears prickled in his eyes. Only because Jim had referred to John as Sherlock's heart at the pool hadn't meant that the criminal mastermind would rest after the doctor had been eliminated from Sherlock's life. It should have been obvious seeing that Jim hadn't been the one to break his heart by chasing John away. Where would have been the fun if Jim had left Sherlock to his own devices when he had mourned the loss of his best friend? No, it had been much more entertaining for the consulting criminal to bring Sherlock down himself and what a good job he had done. First he had built Sherlock up then he had created a place for himself in his life and in the end... Jim had seduced him. Or rather, Jim had seduced Sherlock's heart. If he had only played Sherlock to get him into bed with him the blow dealt to his psyche would have been insignificant. As it was Jim had achieved what no one before him had managed: to make Sherlock fall for him. That was not to say that Sherlock had never fancied someone before or acted on such feelings. But it hadn't felt like someone was cutting his chest open and squeezing his heart to the last drop of blood when he had ended his casual affair with Victor.

Though the worst part wasn't that Sherlock had fallen in love with Jim but that there was no way to undo it. Over the last couple of days Sherlock had tried every strategy he could think of to get rid of his feelings for Jim. When it had been impossible - and impractical - to delete Jim completely, Sherlock had attempted to only get rid of the positive feelings he had come to associate with the consulting criminal. The attempt had been in vain and only resulted in more frustration and a headache. His stupid heart just didn't want to accept that Jim had betrayed him. Jim who hadn't replied to any of his texts in weeks. Jim who had announced that their playtime was over in lieu of a goodbye to Sherlock and who had probably laughed himself sick at how long it had taken Sherlock to get the message. Jim who was still always on his mind and had infiltrated even the last room of his Mind Palace. Whenever Sherlock closed his eyes, there was the smiling face of the consulting criminal greeting him in his own mind. Neither experiments nor cold cases could chase Jim away. There was no way to escape from the ache in his heart. Or at least there was no legal way to do so. Sherlock regarded the phone in his hand carefully and then made a decision. He sent two texts in quick succession.

You win. - SH

And:

Get a package ready for me. Will pick it up this evening. - SH

He didn't have to wait long for a confirmation from Wiggins.

Consider it done, boss. Same place as usual. - BW

Sherlock snorted at the signature and then glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. Just enough time to get changed for his date.


	13. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this chapter. I simply loved writing it. 
> 
> **Trigger Warning** : Discussions of drug use.

### Desperate Measures

Sherlock made his way through the back alleys of London without meeting any trouble. His cheap sweater, torn jeans and dirty sneakers made sure that no one looked at him twice. He blended right in with his surroundings without having to try hard to disguise who he truly was. Years of practice had taught Sherlock how to navigate this part of the city without attracting the attention of anyone. As long as he kept his head lowered and minded his own business then no one would question why he was here. Especially seeing as he didn't look like he carried anything valuable with him.

Sherlock buried his hands in the pockets and ducked his head further down as he side-stepped two guys that were only seconds away from getting into a knife fight with each other. No matter how many years went by, some things would never change.

"Like your addiction, you mean." Sherlock didn't even react to the snide voice in his Mind Palace when he stepped into the backyard of an abandoned building. He wasn't an addict because he got something to calm and clear his mind. Millions of people popped pills each day to get the exact same result.

"Prescribed medicine," his mind corrected him but Sherlock only shrugged to himself. Same difference as long as it had the desired effect.

"Sorry to make you wait, boss." 

Sherlock didn't flinch as Wiggins came up behind him and turned around with an impassive mask on his face. "It's bad for business to make your costumers wait," Sherlock returned without any heat in his voice. He was aware that Wiggins had watched him for five minutes before he had come out of his hiding place to join him. It was a relief to see that Wiggins had still enough of his brain left to take precautions when meeting with potential costumers although he looked every part the junkie that he was. Not that Sherlock had any right to judge him seeing as he was here to buy himself a fix as well. And if it hadn't been for Mycroft's interfering years ago then Sherlock might have ended up just like Wiggins. The thought gave Sherlock pause for a second when doubt flared up in his mind and he almost left without buying anything. But then he remembered Jim's soft smile and how everything had only ever been a game to him and Sherlock stayed.

"Cash?"

Sherlock pulled one of his hands out of his pocket and handed the notes to Wiggins who counted and pocketed them.

"And are we chasing the dragon tonight or are we looking for something else? A snowball perhaps or some Chinese tobacco?"

Sherlock considered the offer carefully. While he certainly wasn't in the mood for a mixture of heroin and cocaine, opium was a great way to relax and let go of all that bothered him. Then again, the effects of opium weren't as long lasting as the effects of heroin which would cut the relaxing experience short.

"Or how about a special mix?" Wiggins shuffled with his feet as he waited for Sherlock to make his decision. "Weed 'n dope go well together."

Sherlock shook his head when he finally made up his mind. "No experiments tonight. Dope will do."

Wiggins nodded as if he understood Sherlock perfectly well. "For here or at home?"

Sherlock didn't know if he should snort at the question that reminded him of the Chinese restaurant around the corner or shudder at the idea of getting high on a dirty mattress in Wiggins's hideout. He opened his mouth to tell Wiggins to just get the stuff so that he could get back home when steps came up to them from between the shadows of the building.

"Nowhere," a velvet voice answered Wiggins' question. "He isn't buying."

"And who are you to make that decision?" Wiggins squinted in the darkness. "Ain't no cop I can tell."

"No."

Sherlock didn't know if he should scream or laugh in frustration when Jim stepped out of the shadows. Of all the times that he could have turned up, he had chosen now to make Sherlock's life more miserable.

"I am the man with the gun." Jim aimed the revolver carelessly at Wiggins as he moved closer to them. "And I tell you to either run along or get a new hole in your head. It's really all the same to me."

"Right." Wiggins held up his hands. "On my way."

Sherlock gave Wiggins credit for the searching look he threw at him and only turned tail when Sherlock jerked his head in a tiny nod. They both waited until Wiggins was safely out of hearing range before they turned onto each other.

"What were you thinking?! Buying drugs from the street like some common junkie!"

Sherlock grabbed onto the anger that surged through him at the accusations and crowded into Jim's private space as he all but growled at him. "And what does it matter to you? You already have what you wanted, don't you? You won and now you can lean back and enjoy the fruits of your labour."

"I won?" Jim repeated with a confused look in his eyes.

It almost fooled Sherlock until he recalled what an outstanding actor the criminal mastermind was. "Yes! Congratulations!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air and then bowed mockingly to Jim. "You got what you always wanted."

"What the fuck are you even talking about?"

Sherlock had to leave it to Jim that he still managed to stay in character even when confronted with such manic behaviour. And Sherlock was self-aware enough to see his actions for what they were but if he stopped to think he knew that he would break down. There was no way that he would give Jim the satisfaction on top of everything.

"You know exactly what I am talking about." Sherlock slapped a hand against his chest. "You wanted to burn the heart out of me and you succeeded. Or did you mean it literally?" He raised a mocking eyebrow at Jim who stood frozen and gasping as his eyes followed Sherlock's erratic movements when he shrugged off his sweater. "I don't have a knife with me but I am sure one of your minions have one handy." Sherlock's eyes flickered to a moving shadow at the edge of the building. 

"If you are fast enough," Sherlock traced an invisible line over his bare chest where one would have to make the incision to get to his heart, "It will even beat a couple of times in your hand. Wouldn't it be awesome to hold the heart of the fool you played in your hands while you watched the light go out in his eyes?!"

A loud slap interrupted his taunting and Sherlock blinked slowly when the sting in his cheeks made his eyes water. Heavy breathing sounded from Jim who stood with a raised hand in front of him, a wild look in his eyes. "Stop this nonsense at once. I am not here to kill you."

"No?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at Jim. "I didn't have you put for so cruel. Or have you decided that playtime isn't over after all and you would like to see me dance some more?!" Sherlock's chest heaved with the effort to push the words out past the anger that was lodged in his throat. Yes, anger and nothing else. He just had to hold onto it and push away all the other feelings that were crowding inside him.

"Sherlock," Jim's eyes widened in something akin to disbelief, "I didn't mean..."

"You didn't mean to fool me into trusting you and thinking we were friends when I was emotionally vulnerable after John left me?" Sherlock spit with as much venom as he could muster. "Or you didn't mean to make me fall in love with you and then throw me aside?!"

Jim's jaw went slack at the last question and Sherlock felt his own eyes widen when panic surged to the surface of his mind. Damn, he hadn't meant to say that. To admit that Jim had succeeded where no one before him had even stood a chance. His shoulders sagged in defeat when all the fight left him and only misery remained in its place.

"As I said, you win," Sherlock croaked and averted his eyes. He didn't want to see the smirk on Jim's face. There was no way that he would survive seeing this ultimate proof of betrayal. Hopefully, Jim would leave soon after he had savoured his victory to allow Sherlock to find Wiggins again. Or some other drug dealer. Honestly, Sherlock wasn't picky right now. Anything to numb the pain would do.

"Sherlock."

He flinched when a gentle hand stroked his cheek and then fell to his chest to rest over his beating heart but he didn't meet Jim's gaze. There was only so much that Sherlock could take without breaking down on the spot.

A bell rang somewhere in the distance to announce the full hour but neither man moved. Silence settled over them once more and still nothing happened. Sherlock shivered in the cool night when it touched the exposed skin of his chest. The cold was in stark contrast to the warmth that radiated from Jim's hand where it was still pressed against his skin. Sherlock imagined that it would leave an imprint on his chest. A visible mark as a twin to the one that Jim had already left on his heart.

He could go, Sherlock realised when another few minutes had passed by with neither of them moving. Neither Jim nor his minions would hold him back. And it was tempting to put his sweater back on and turn his back on Jim. Not that it would mean anything to the consulting criminal but at least this time Sherlock would be the one to take the first step away from him. Though as tempting as it was Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move. Something kept him rooted to the spot. 

"I am sorry."

Against his better judgement Sherlock's eyes flickered to Jim's face at the whispered apology. The sorrow and despair in the dark eyes took Sherlock by surprise. He had expected triumph or malicious joy but certainly not the depths of feelings that was mirrored in Jim's eyes.

"Why?" Sherlock whispered back without knowing what he was asking for exactly.

Jim held his gaze even as his fingers traced absentmindedly over the faint line that had remained from Sherlock's stab wound. "It was never a game."

New anger flared up in Sherlock at such a blatant lie. He grabbed Jim's wrist with the intention of pushing him away when the consulting criminal continued. "At first when I gave you all these cases to solve, it was a game."

"A game that involved blowing up innocent people," Sherlock remarked just for the sake of it but loosened his grip on Jim's wrist.

"Well... Yeah." A boyish grin flickered over Jim's face and was then replaced by something darker once more. "I enjoyed playing this game with you, Sherlock. But even then I was also fascinated by you."

"So you told me at the hospital."

"Yes and it wasn't a lie."

"I believe you," Sherlock replied because he did. He had never questioned Jim's fascination with him. All the other feelings that the consulting criminal had pretended to have had rather been the issue.

"Everything else wasn't a lie either." Jim's voice was laced with desperation as he stared up at Sherlock with begging eyes. "I came over the first time to get you back on track, yes but," Jim worried his lower lip between his teeth, "I didn't actually need to keep in touch with you afterwards. And yet I found myself unable to stay away from you." Jim closed his eyes as if in pain but opened them again to look pleadingly up at Sherlock. "You fell asleep with me still around in the flat. You were at my mercy and yet all I could do was to cover you with a blanket and leave you to sleep."

Sherlock frowned at the statement, not sure what to make of it. Jim pressed his lips into a thin line at Sherlock's obvious lack of comprehension but elaborated. "I am not in the habit of being decent to people, of not taking advantage of a situation. But people that know who I am are even less likely to fall asleep around me. The experience was rather... humbling."

Sherlock snorted at the idea of the great consulting criminal being humbled but caught himself when Jim glared at him. Obviously he was serious about that.

"You kept texting me afterwards."

"You left your number," Sherlock pointed out.

"And I expected you to throw it away. Oh, I didn't want you to throw it away," Jim added hurriedly when Sherlock's face fell, "I just didn't expect you to use it."

"I am full of surprises." Sherlock didn't even try to inflict his voice with a smile when his words fell sadly between them. People had always accused him of being unpredictable - unstable even. And while Sherlock had always used the false expectations of people to his advantage it had still hurt to get attacked for something that he had no control over.

"Yes, you are!"

The three simple words were delivered with more emphasis than necessary and Sherlock was dumbstruck by the determined expression on Jim's face. No one had ever looked at him quite like this. Like his flaws weren't merely forgivable but even... desired. Sherlock had to remind himself why he couldn't trust Jim or he would have done something stupid. Something like kissing the criminal mastermind... again.

"I didn't expect to enjoy exchanging texts with you so much but I did. And yet," Jim's whole body slumped as he leaned closer to Sherlock and continued in a much quieter voice, "I wasn't sure where you stood."

"Where I stood?" Sherlock repeated with equal parts disbelief and confusion. 

"Yes. I flirted with you and sometimes you would flirt right back but then again you would simply ignore every and each innuendo. I wasn't sure if you were merely after a distraction, a friendship or if you wanted... more."

"I wasn't sure either," Sherlock whispered back as he found part of his doubt melt away at Jim's honest confession. "Neither about you nor about me."

A wry smile turned up Jim's lips. "Welcome to the club." He sighed quietly. "I wasn't sure until I saw you again in Sussex. When you opened the door to me I knew," Jim swallowed hard, "I knew that I wanted you. All of you and... it scared me. I have never experienced such strong feelings before. I felt so... exposed."

Brown eyes looked at him in search of understanding and Sherlock was certain that they found it since Jim's words described his own feelings all too well.

"That's why you lashed you at me," Sherlock realised and an embarrassed blush tinted Jim's cheeks.

"Yes and then you suggested we share a bed and took me on a case with you and I thought," Jim took a deep breath and visibly forced himself to continue, "I falsely believed that everything was fine. That I could casually spend time with you but then..."

".... we kissed," Sherlock finished the sentence when he started to see where Jim was going with this.

"We kissed," Jim agreed and something complicated passed over his features. "And before that you told me that you trusted me and I," Jim's hand clenched against Sherlock's chest as if to hold onto him for support. "I wanted to be worthy of your trust. Believe me that realisation came as a shock to me as well."

Sherlock ignored the last part of Jim's statement and instead addressed the much more important bits of it. "I don't see why you shouldn't be worthy of my trust - if you truly didn't play with me the whole time." And Sherlock was starting to doubt that this had been the case although he would reserve judgement until Jim had told him the whole story.

"You don't see it." A hollow laugh fell from Jim's lips. "Of course you don't see it because I haven't shown you the depths of my feelings for you yet. With depth there comes darkness and even I fear to look to closely at what lies beneath it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes although it was obvious that Jim was deadly serious. Still he was being much too dramatic in his opinion.

"And he has feelings for you," a giddy voice reminded him before Sherlock pushed it aside for the time being. There was no use in getting overly excited until he had the whole picture. "What do you mean by darkness?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Jim. "Do you want to slash me open and harvest my organs to store them in formaldehyde? Or do you want to torture me until I scream your name in pain? Or maybe you would like to turn me into a pet or make me your good little boy? Perhaps it's more complicated than that and you want to slowly break me down with mind games and then build me again from scratch. Or..."

Jim looked like he was going to be sick while Sherlock kept on listing all the things he considered to be dark. Mind, it was a long list but Sherlock didn't think that Jim had any of these things planned for him. His face had grown much too pale for him to seriously entertain the idea of turning Sherlock into a sex slave or following through with any of the other examples Sherlock had thrown at him. 

"Stop!"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and Jim scrubbed over his face with his free hand as he regarded Sherlock with a wry smile. "It looks like I should be the one worrying about your hidden fantasies."

"I was just giving you examples of ideas that people come up with to do to their... to someone else. I didn't think that you would be so squeamish."

Jim made a face at him. "Torture and mind games I can get behind if I am in need of information from a business partner but who would do this to a lover?!"

"And I thought you were the consulting criminal here."

Jim grimaced. "I am not a monster though."

"No, you aren't." Sherlock placed his hand on Jim's shoulder and locked gazes with him. "That's why there is no reason for me to be afraid of your feelings."

"No?!" Jim laughed humourlessly. "And if I told you that I want to consume you completely: body, mind and soul? That every time we meet my hunger for you grows and I can barely keep myself from reaching out for you - from touching you. That I want you more than I have wanted anyone before you. That I want to be part of everything you do - of every part of your life. That I want to kiss you awake in the morning and then ravish you completely. Do you still think that there is no need for you to fear me?" Jim's chest was heaving by this point in his little speech but he wasn't finished yet. "Don't you see that this was why I had to run... go away after we kissed. It was better if I stayed away from you and kinder as well."

"So, you ignored all of my texts and let me believe that you had simply played me for my own good? If that's true then why are you here now?"

A complicated look crossed Jim's face and Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of the odd mixture of sadness, hope, sorrow and fear that stayed behind in dark eyes. Emotions really weren't his area but obviously Jim wasn't well-versed in them either.

"I hadn't anticipated for you to believe that it had just been a game. I was sure that you would move on with your life in a matter of days if I didn't reply to your texts. Obviously, I noticed that I had miscalculated but I thought you simply needed more time but then I got your latest text and I... needed to check up on you. When you left the flat clad like this," Jim gestured to Sherlock's torn jeans, "I knew what you had in mind and I couldn't allow you to take drugs."

Sherlock blinked slowly. A part of him wanted to be angry at Jim for getting into his business. Another part though was busier analysing what Jim's words meant in the context of the whole situation. It didn't take Sherlock long to come to a conclusion. "You are an idiot."

Sherlock squeezed Jim's shoulder and gave him a tiny smile when the consulting criminal narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't look like that, I am an idiot as well." Sherlock sighed. "I was so busy refusing to admit to myself what I want that I didn't see how you were feeling all this time."

It was true, Sherlock hadn't deduced that Jim desired him like this. A stupid mistake considering that Jim had flirted with him from the start. But Sherlock simply wasn't used to someone desiring him. Not like that at least. People had propositioned him for sex often enough - and sometimes Sherlock had agreed to it - but no one had ever shown interest in him as a whole. Victor had come the closest. At least he had been amazed by Sherlock's brilliant mind and amused rather than disgusted by his numerous experiments. But his high regard for Sherlock had vanished completely once they had fallen into bed together. His admiration had turned to disgust when he had laid eyes on Sherlock's body and his insults had haunted Sherlock for years.

"You weren't merely not used to it but you were afraid to see it for what it was because of your former experiences. You were afraid of what would happen if you both admitted to your mutual attraction and gave in to it. Therefore it was easier to close your eyes and pretend that it wasn't there." All true but Sherlock wasn't afraid anymore. The realisation took him by surprise and he almost missed Jim's question while he was busy verifying that his fear had vanished.

"What do you want then?"

"The same as you," Sherlock breathed between them. "I want to consume you and for you to consume me in return." It was so simply and yet it had taken him so long to see it. Sherlock only hoped that Jim would accept it as well instead of running away from him again. Once, Sherlock could forgive him for being a complete idiot but he wasn't sure that he would be able to handle a second time. 

Luckily he didn't have to find out. Jim's eyes widened in surprise even as a soft smile curled around the corner of his lips. "You are sure." There was pure wonder in Jim's voice.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed the word between them and then caught Jim's lips in the briefest of kisses before he closed his arms around him and held Jim's head against his chest. Warm breath tickled his skin when Jim exhaled against him and Sherlock relaxed in turn when Jim's arms came up around his back. They could have stayed like that for hours if it hadn't been for the cold. Sherlock shivered in Jim's arms and then sneezed over the head of his friend.

"Bless you." Jim glanced up at Sherlock and furrowed his brows while he regarded him critically before he took a step back. "Put your sweater back on before you catch your death."

"It would be disappointingly unspectacular to die of pneumonia," Sherlock agreed even though his teeth shattered when he pulled the sweater back on.

"Indeed." Jim frowned and then came to a decision. "Let's get you home to warm you up."

"Only if you come with me," Sherlock heard himself blurt out and flushed but refused to avert his eyes while he waited for Jim's reply. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long.

"Yes."

Such a simple word and yet it held more meaning than Sherlock could fully comprehend at the moment. And it also wasn't important for now to analyse it. Not when Sherlock was free to interlace his fingers with Jim's as they left the backyard on their way home - on their way to Baker Street.


	14. Let Me Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't split this chapter into two, so here it is: more than 7K words of mostly smut. Don't worry though, a lot of feelings are involved as well.
> 
> Just a word of warning. The sex in this chapter is graphic and explicit. If that's not your cup of tea, skip it.  
> Everyone else: Enjoy! :)

### Let Me Love You

Steam filled the bathroom and fogged up the mirror while the pipes cracked in protest as hot water was pumped through them. Sherlock sighed in relief when his body started to warm up again and his muscles relaxed when the water hit his head and cascaded down his back. His skin felt like it was slowly defrosting after enduring long minutes in the cold.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his chest and cursed inwardly when the movement provoked a cough. God, he truly hoped that he hadn't caught pneumonia but he certainly wouldn't walk away from his own stupidity without a cold. Next time, he should think twice before going topless in the cold of the night but at the time it had seemed like a good idea.

Sherlock shook his head at himself as he finished up with his shower when the temperature of the water started to drop. Jim wouldn't be amused if he stayed so long in the shower until the water was freezing cold. It would rather negate the purpose of taking a shower in the first place.

A small grin turned Sherlock's lips upwards as he climbed out of the shower and started to dry himself. Upon coming back home to Baker Street, Jim had insisted that Sherlock take a shower to warm up while he would make tea. Actually it was extremely touching that Jim seemed so worried about him.

"He tried to remove himself from your life because he thought that he would be bad for you. It's not so hard to deduce that he worries about you, doofus."

Sherlock chuckled quietly at the reminder of Jim's confession before his expression turned serious again. He believed his friend and he could even comprehend where Jim's fears came from but... where exactly did that leave them? They had kissed like it was the most natural act in the world in the shabby backyard and they had held hands all the way back home but now that they were here Sherlock wasn't sure how to proceed. Sherlock hadn't lied to Jim when he had said that he wanted them to consume each other and he had certainly meant it in as much of a sexual way as in every other aspect of life. The truth was that Sherlock liked sex. And not just the simple act of getting off with a willing partner but also the intimacy that came with it. Nevertheless, it had been years since he had indulged in anything sexual with a partner. There was a high chance that he couldn't live up to Jim's expectations if they were to engage in something now.

"Is that truly the reason for your hesitance to leave the bathroom?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and the reflection in the mirror imitated him. Some of his hesitance stemmed from his long abstinence and the simple fact that it was always nerve-wracking to navigate the first sexual encounter with a new lover. Not to mention that Sherlock wasn't even certain that Jim would want anything to happen between them tonight although most of the evidence pointed in this direction. Still, while these were all reasons that fuelled his nervousness it wasn't the main reason as to why Sherlock hesitated in front of the mirror.  
His eyes shifted down the length of his body. They took in his flat chest and abdomen, his well-muscled legs and the dark curls that covered his most private place. 

"It's not so much that you don't like your body but that you are afraid that Jim will find it lacking in certain areas."

Sherlock could only agree with the simple deduction about his own feelings. He was comfortable enough with how his body looked and until Victor he had never felt insecure in sexual situations. But after the cruel words his former friend had thrown at him upon seeing him naked Sherlock had avoided any and all sexual relations with people. Perhaps that had been a mistake and he should have just found someone to fall into bed with to get over his self-doubts but it was too late for regret now.

"Maybe Jim is exactly the right man to banish your self-doubts for good. He seems just as eager to get into your pants as you are and you also trust him. It will be fine."

Usually, Sherlock didn't listen to his inner voice but this time he took the reasoning to heart. Jim wasn't like Victor. It would all be fine. There was no reason for Sherlock to doubt himself. Calm settled over Sherlock after he had repeated the words a few times in his head and the tension left his shoulders as he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Everything would be fine.

Sherlock pulled an old shirt and his pyjama bottoms on and tied his dressing gown around himself and then marched out of the bathroom before he could start to over think everything again. He was greeted by the scent of freshly brewed tea and Jim's searching look when he entered the kitchen.

"I was about to file a missing person's report," his friend remarked drily.

"We can't all just stumble out of the shower and look presentable," Sherlock returned and was grateful when Jim didn't point out to him that Sherlock hadn't invested much time into looking presentable. His hair would be a mess in the morning after it had been left to air-dry but Sherlock hadn't been in the mood to go through his usual routine of blow drying and carefully combing his hair.

When Jim just leaned against the kitchen counter without any remark Sherlock gulped down the mug of tea that had waited for him on the table to fill the strangely awkward moment. Thankfully it had cooled down far enough to prevent any burns and contained just enough sugar to be to Sherlock's liking. The silence between them persisted even after Sherlock had finished his tea and he felt Jim's eyes following him as he carried the mug over to the sink and gave it a rinse. A wave of warmth washed over Sherlock when he met Jim's gaze and read the barely concealed hunger in these dark eyes.

"What?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his friend when he just kept on looking without moving a single muscle otherwise.

"I'm wondering," a tongue darted out to lick over dry lips, "What we are going to do now?" The statement was voiced as a question and Sherlock felt the last of the tension and nervousness drain from him upon seeing that Jim was fighting with the same feelings. The knowledge that he was just as nervous as Sherlock, was more calming than any reassuring words could have been.

Sherlock turned one corner of his lips upwards to give Jim a cheeky grin. "We do whatever we want to do."

Their gazes met and whatever Jim read in Sherlock's eyes was enough to make him sigh in relief and then spur him into action. A gasp was torn from Sherlock's mouth when insistent lips collided with his own in a desperate kiss. His hands flew up to hold onto Jim's shoulders while his friend continued his attack. For a split second Sherlock was torn between pushing him away and drawing him closer but when Jim tangled one hand in his curls and stroked his neck with his other hand Sherlock's body made the decision for him. They both groaned when their chests were pressed together and the warmth of their bodies seeped through the thin barrier of their clothes into each other.

Sherlock sucked Jim's tongue between his lips and pressed a hand just underneath his left scapula to hold him as close as possible while he catalogued all the information that the kiss revealed to him. Starting with the soft texture of Jim's lips that told him that they were regularly moisturized over the taste of peppermint, liquorice and something darker to the desire with which Jim returned the kiss as the hand in Sherlock's curls tightened its grip. Heat surged through Sherlock's body and pooled between his legs when Jim licked greedily into his mouth and used his hold on Sherlock's curls to angle his head for better access. God, but this was better than Sherlock remembered.

His fingers dug into Jim's shoulder blades when he attempted to get even closer to his lover. The clothes that separated them became more of a nuisance with every passing second. And Sherlock just wanted them gone to feel Jim's bare skin on his own. To seek out the warmth that emerged from the body in his arms without anything between them. Jim must have thought along the same lines as he tucked at the belt that held Sherlock's dressing gown together until it came undone and then sent his hands exploring underneath his shirt.  
A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine at the first touch of fingers on his abdomen and then he moaned into the kiss when they stroked upwards to his chest.

"Jim," Sherlock panted against his lover's lips and arched his back as warm digits rubbed over his nipples.

"Sherlock." Jim's voice sounded just as breathless as he nipped at Sherlock's lower lip. "God, I want you."

"Yes," was all Sherlock could think of saying in reply when his nipples hardened under Jim's skilled fingers and sent sparks directly to his groin. He was throbbing with lust and want and the erection that pressed against his leg when Jim groaned in reply showed that his lover was just as affected by their kiss.

Somehow they managed to stumbled through the kitchen without running into anything when Jim steered Sherlock backwards until they reached the living-room. A part of Sherlock wanted to point out that he had a perfectly comfortable bed in his room but a larger part of him was too busy kissing Jim to care.

Something hit against the hollow of his knees and a second later Sherlock found himself slumped in his armchair with Jim's mouth still attached to his. He didn't have the capacity to wonder what was happening because his mind was torn between focusing on the sensation of the kiss and the arousal that was pooling between his legs.

Hands tore at his dressing gown and somehow Sherlock managed to shrug out of it without getting tangled in it. His shirt was pushed up next and Sherlock lifted his arms to help with the removal. He mourned the loss of warm lips on his when their kiss was interrupted for the few seconds it took to throw the shirt aside but only until said lips found his right nipple. A whimper was torn from his throat when the sensation hovered between pleasurable and painful. Before Sherlock could say anything though Jim gave the hard bud an apologetically lick and moved to the other one. This time he didn't suck on it but instead flickered his tongue teasingly over it until Sherlock was squirming in his seat. His flesh was throbbing with need and the fabric of his pyjama bottoms was growing damp with it.

Sherlock barely registered the hands on the waistband of his bottoms and lifted his hips without thinking about it when they tucked insistently on it. Cool air brushed against his heated flesh and Sherlock whimpered quietly at the contrast in sensations. His mind was fuzzy with the strong hormonal cocktail that coursed through his veins and only when Jim licked his way down his abdomen and put Sherlock's legs over his shoulders, did it register what his lover had in mind. And why the pyjama bottoms had to go.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and forced them to focus on Jim. Jim who was kneeling between his spread thighs. With Sherlock's bottom almost hanging of the seat of the armchair and his throbbing flesh on level with Jim's face. The position should make him feel self-conscious but instead Sherlock felt his arousal climb to new heights when gentle fingers stroked between his curls and parted his flesh. Sherlock waited with bated breath for the first brush of lips or a tongue on him and startled in surprise when instead brown eyes snapped up to his. Their pupils were blown so wide that Jim's eyes appeared like dark holes when they looked at him. Dark holes filled to the brim with lust. "I want to suck you until you are shaking with want. And then I want to fuck you with my fingers until you scream my name. I want you to come so hard that you forget who you are. And I want to taste you as you come."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath when his mind almost short circuited from Jim's description. The muscles of his abdomen quivered and more wetness slicked the flesh between his legs while he could almost feel the sensations of Jim's promises. "God please, yes."

Obviously that was all the encouragement Jim needed since hot lips were pressed on Sherlock's quivering flesh a second later. They sucked gently on Sherlock's inner lips and then a little harder only to soothe the skin with broad licks afterwards.

Damn it, but Jim was a tease. His lover was licking right next to his clit and then only brushing the thin skin that surrounded the bundle of nerves before moving away again. It was just enough to heighten Sherlock's arousal to a point at which he was hard pressed not to grab Jim's hair and press his face where he wanted it to be. A desperate whimper was torn from his lips when Jim repeated the movement for the countless time and he was on the brink of either cursing or begging when his lover changed course. 

Sherlock clenched his hands on the armrest of his chair when Jim put his mouth against his front hole and sucked on it. Provoking a small gush of liquid to squirt out of Sherlock. Jim hummed in obvious pleasure between his legs and the vibration sent a quiver through Sherlock's body which intensified when a skilled tongue all but licked the liquid up. "You taste divine, my dear."

Sherlock only had the time to look down to catch a glimpse of sparkling dark eyes and glistening lips before Jim dived back in and Sherlock's world narrowed down to his groin.  
Jim licked broad stripes from his quivering hole up to his neglected clit until Sherlock was squirming in his seat. Only then did Jim add his fingers into the mix. But not in the way he had told Sherlock at first. Or maybe Sherlock didn't remember it correctly anymore. He didn't know and he didn't care. He was only happy when two fingers started to rub his slick clit while a tongue wriggled its way into him.

His toes started to curl when Jim started to bop his head back and forth to push his tongue ever deeper into him while he increased the pace of his fingers at the same time. He alternated between moving them in V-formation around Sherlock's clit and rubbing the tips of his fingers directly on it. It was maddening, frustrating and arousing all at once as Jim changed his rhythm right when Sherlock was teetering on the edge of orgasm only to have his arousal decrease a smidgen at the change and then rise again at the continued stimulation.

Sherlock slammed his head back against the armrest and pushed his hips upwards in a show of need and frustration. If he didn't come soon then he would go crazy. Or he would simply push Jim away and finish himself off. Either Jim had read his thoughts or he had decided that he had teased Sherlock for long enough but he was finally keeping the rhythm and position of his fingers while angling his tongue just so that it added the right amount of pressure to... to...

Sherlock wasn't certain if he made any noises when his mouth fell open and he gasped for air when his orgasm hit him. Thousand nerve endings were firing at once while pulse after pulse of pure pleasure was sent out from between his legs and through his whole body. His legs were shaking and he was gasping for breath and he was still coming.

Jim kept on stroking him with gentling touches until Sherlock's orgasm had ebbed away. His fingers fell away at that point for which Sherlock was grateful since the stimulation would have become too much otherwise.

His mind was just starting to come back online and start to wonder how he should reciprocate when Jim wriggled his tongue inside him in an obvious show that he wasn't finished yet. Sherlock forced his eyes open to look down at the black head of hair between his legs before he snapped them shut again with a groan on his lips. Jim had gathered Sherlock's own wetness with his tongue and was now spreading it liberally on his still pulsing flesh. The sensation was enough to make heat pool low in his belly as his arousal was heightened much faster than before.

"Do you remember what I promised you before I started?" Jim waited until Sherlock had managed to meet his gaze and while their eyes were locked he pushed two of his fingers into his hole. Sherlock's eyes widened at the pressure of Jim's fingers inside him and barely missed the effect it had on Jim because he was too busy to concentrate on the new sensation. A part of his brain still had to be functional though. Sherlock registered how Jim squirmed on his knees when he took in Sherlock's reaction and then pressed his free hand between his own legs. Sherlock couldn't see if he was only cupping himself or jerking off but the knowledge that he was affecting Jim like this was enough to tear a whimper from his lips.

"I always keep my promises," Jim whispered with a hoarse voice and didn't leave Sherlock the chance to reply when he followed his words with actions. Spit trickled over Sherlock's clit and then was soon spread around by Jim's tongue as he licked and sucked on it while his fingers thrust into Sherlock at just the right angle to make him gasp and squirm in pleasure.  
Lights exploded before Sherlock's closed eyes when his synapses lit his nerves on fire. And this time he was groaning and gasping as his inner walls contracted around Jim's fingers while pulse after pulse of pure pleasure chased through his body.

He was still quivering from aftershocks when Jim lowered his legs down from his shoulders and leaned back. There was the rustling of clothes that Sherlock could barely make out over the rushing of his blood in his ears and then hands that pushed his legs together. Sherlock opened his eyes to watch as Jim climbed in his lap. It was a tight fit with his lover's legs pressed against the armrests of the chair but Sherlock didn't complain. He was much too focused on the thick cock that rose proudly from between his legs. The foreskin was completely retreated and the head was flushed red and glistening with pre-come. As Sherlock watched another drop welled up and ran down the hard length. 

Sherlock's tongue darted out to lick his lips and Jim's eyes grew even darker with desire when he surged forward and captured Sherlock's mouth with his own. His button-down shirt rubbed against Sherlock's skin when Jim covered his body almost completely with his own. Sherlock only had the time to realise that Jim had been so eager to get off that he had only pushed his trousers down to his ankles before he was too busy returning Jim's kiss to focus on anything else.

It was a sloppy meeting of mouths and tongues as Jim grasped at Sherlock's curls while his other hand moved fast between their bodies. Not much time passed until Jim was merely panting into Sherlock's mouth while he desperately chased his orgasm. Sherlock brought his hands up to Jim's cheeks and stroked them gently as he drank in the sight of his lover on the brink of release. His usually expressive eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as he panted for breath and with hairs sticking to his forehead. He looked like the personification of passion.

"Look at me," Sherlock breathed and Jim's eyes snapped open.

Their gazes met and Jim's eyes widened impossibly as the hand on his cock sped up. "Oh fuck!"

It was all the warning Sherlock got before Jim's jaw went slack and he arched his back when he came. Spurts of warm come hit Sherlock's chest and stomach as well as his cheek while Jim groaned through his orgasm and then collapsed on top of Sherlock.

Seconds ticked by while Jim could only pant against Sherlock's neck while he stroked the hair and back of his lover. He couldn't remember the last time that he had such an intense sexual experience. Somehow he even doubted that it had ever been like this. Certainly none of his lovers had ever managed to give him such a mind-blowing orgasm but that wasn't the only difference. The physical part of the sex had been incredible but there had also been a much deeper connection between them that had given their encounter more meaning.

"Intimacy is the word you are looking for," his mind informed him and Sherlock nodded.  
Yes, that was it. They had shared an intimate experience while with every other lover it had only ever been... fucking.

Sherlock was just about to follow this train of thought further when Jim steered in his arms and pushed himself into a sitting position. Sherlock's eyes flickered from Jim's face down to his cock. Its head was smeared with come as it stood still half-erect amidst dark curls. Without thinking twice about it Sherlock traced a finger over its head and brought it up to his lips to taste his lover. He barely registered the salty taste since he was distracted by the way Jim's cock twitched at the contact.

"God, Sherlock!" The groan sounded almost pained but the gleam in Jim's eyes spoke of different feelings.

"You will be the death of me." Jim laughed quietly when he brought their foreheads together and nudged Sherlock's nose with his own. "We just had sex and yet I already want to do it again."

Sherlock's lips stretched into a grin and he rubbed his nose against Jim's and then pressed a kiss to the tip of it. "I don't see the problem."

And he didn't. His body was still filled with low-key arousal from his lover's proximity alone and he wasn't sore at all. If Jim was up for another round too then Sherlock was game.

"You don't?" There was real surprise in Jim's eyes which soon gave way to happy anticipation when Sherlock shook his head. "No, but we need to change locations first."

"Isn't the armchair good enough for you?" Jim's voice was teasing and Sherlock sent a grin right back at him.

"My bed is much better. Bigger for one thing." Sherlock leaned forward to whisper directly in Jim's ear. "Much more room to go wild."

"You know how to sweet-talk me." A kiss was pressed to Sherlock's cheek and then Jim's weight left his lap as he stumbled to his feet. "And you are right, more space sounds like a good idea."

Sherlock only grinned when Jim massaged his thighs to get right of the tension in them and then climbed to his own feet. His shirt was used to wipe up most of the mess on his upper body and between his legs and then thrown over the chair. There was no need to be any more throughout if they already had their eyes set on another round. 

Sherlock turned towards Jim who had followed his example and cleaned himself up with his Westwood shirt and now stood completely naked in the living-room. Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and leader of an international crime organisation, naked in his living-room. Sherlock took a moment to appreciate this reality while his eyes swept over the lean chest - dusted with dark hair - to his cock that looked still interested in the proceedings.

"If you just want us to stare at each other, I don't mind." Jim's eyes twinkled with mischief as they swept over Sherlock's body and came back up to meet his gaze. "But I thought you had something else in mind."

There was a challenging gleam in Jim's eyes and Sherlock was more than prepared to show Jim that he wasn't the only one who could get creative in bed. "Follow me if you want to find out."

"Tease," Sherlock heard the word muttered good-naturally when he turned around and led the way to his bedroom. A grin spread over his face as he added a little swagger to his step to show off his arse even more.

"I will certainly die of a heart attack if you keep doing that," Jim muttered when Sherlock pulled back the covers and climbed onto the bed.

"What?" Sherlock turned halfway so that he was kneeing in the middle of the bed when the mattress dipped as Jim joined him. "Having sex with you numerous times a day?"

Jim cupped Sherlock's face with his hands while he kneeled directly in front of him. "Looking incredibly confident and sexy while just being yourself."

Sherlock blinked as he tried to come up with a reply to the strange - and yet utterly satisfying - compliment but was spared from it when Jim took his breath away with a kiss. A kiss that was much sweeter than the ones they had shared before. Their frantic need had been replaced by a deeply rooted longing to be close to each other. To touch and feel and explore with all senses. Unhurried since their lust had been satisfied for the time being and their arousal was a low simmering flame in the background of their minds instead of the roaring wild fire that had consumed them the first time.

Sherlock let his hands roam freely over Jim's back and his sides while their kiss carried on. He noted the different textures of his lover's skin and felt the unevenness in some parts. A few of those were simple moles but others felt like they had a different origin. Scars, Sherlock's mind supplied helpfully as his finger followed a thin line that ran downwards from the crook of Jim's arms to end a few millimetres underneath his ribcage. It was the longest of all the scars that Sherlock had felt so far and judging from its texture it was old as well. Maybe almost as old as Jim was himself. Pictures started to form in Sherlock's mind as to how Jim could have gotten an injury that led to such a scar or why there were tiny scars scattered over his back - all at least twenty years old - but he pushed them aside. It was not his place to deduce the past of his lover. Not here, not while they were together like this. At some point he might ask Jim and maybe he would get an answer but now wasn't about the past but only about them. Jim relaxed noticeable when Sherlock's fingers moved on from his most prominent scar and continued their exploration of his body. It had been the right decision to let the past rest.

Sherlock sighed into the kiss when Jim's fingers stroked along his spine and a languorous shiver ran through his whole body. He all but melted against Jim when he continued the gentle stroking motion on his back. Sherlock couldn't recall that someone had ever touched him like this before. It felt strange but in a good and comfortable way. He could certainly get used to it.

They dipped sideward on the bed when their knees got in the way of them getting closer to each other. Some manoeuvring later they lay with their legs intertwined and their chests pressed together while their lips continued the exploration of each other. Sherlock would have never thought that he would enjoy kissing someone for minutes on end. Usually, kissing hadn't been more than a necessity for his past lovers and a guaranteed way to shut them up for himself. With Jim though Sherlock could spend hours just kissing him while holding him close without getting bored at all. Only when Jim's hands started to linger on Sherlock's arse and his cock started to press more insistently against his thigh, did Sherlock break the kiss. His own arousal was a low simmering warmth between his legs when he pushed Jim onto his back and hovered over him with his elbows to the right and left side of his face.

"I want to taste you everywhere," Sherlock purred in a low voice and followed his words by licking a trail from Jim's jaw over his Adam's Apple and sucking gently on the delicate skin.  
A shuddering breath escaped Jim when Sherlock nipped at his throat with his teeth and tilted his head back to allow him better access. Sherlock accepted the invitation and mapped Jim's throat with his lips and teeth. Careful to leave no marks where someone could see them since Sherlock doubted that Jim would be amused if he had to cover a love bite for the next week.  
Only when Sherlock had made his way to Jim's chest, did he let go of his restrain. When he leaned up to look down at his lover some time later, Jim's chest was covered in red marks, his nipples erect and glistening with salvia and his skin flushed with heat.

Sherlock's flesh gave an interested throb at the sight of Jim like this. And when his eyes flickered down to where Jim's cock rested heavily and almost completely erect again against his stomach, he had to press his hand against his crotch to stifle his own increasing need. Although it was tempting to jerk them both off together, Sherlock had different plans and if that meant to endure the sweet agony of self-denial a little longer then he would gladly suffer through it.

"Are you just going to stare at me until I get off?" Jim's teasing voice made Sherlock glance up at his lover who winked at him. "Mind, it might even work if I just get to look at you long enough. You are sexy as hell like this," Jim licked his lips and his eyes roamed freely over Sherlock's body. "If you would consider a little private dance to show off your fantastic arse as well, it wouldn't take me long to... Oh!"

Sherlock smirked at Jim's surprised gasp when he swallowed his lover's cock as far as possible without any forewarning. It wasn't as far as Sherlock would have liked when he almost gagged as the tip of the cock hit his throat but it should suffice for now. There was more to a good blowjob than deep-throating after all. 

Sherlock closed one of his hands around the shaft of Jim's cock and gave it a stroke while sucking at the sensitive head at the same time. He was rewarded by a quiet moan and the bitter taste of the first drop of pre-come as it hit his tongue. Sherlock filled the taste away for later analysis and let salvia trickle down Jim's cock to use as lube as he increased the pace of his hand on him. Simultaneously Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard. The cock swelled in his mouth and stretched his lips further when Sherlock repeated the motion and Jim cursed above him. If Sherlock's mouth wouldn't have been occupied otherwise he would have grinned at his success. As it was he only hummed in contentment which provoked another stream of profanities from Jim. His hips pushed upwards and drove his cock further into Sherlock's mouth than he had anticipated. He barely managed to keep his gag reflex under control but had to lean back on his heels and let go of Jim's cock as he coughed in an attempt to get his breath back.

"Sorry." Compunctious eyes looked up at Sherlock as Jim squeezed his thigh in apology but Sherlock simply shrugged. "It happens. No harm done."

He gave another cough and then gestured with his hand to Jim. "Turn around!"

"Why?" Jim cocked his head to the side as he regarded Sherlock carefully. There wasn't a hint of hesitance in his eyes but playfulness instead when he raised his eyes in a silent challenge at Sherlock.

"Because," Sherlock licked a wet stripe from the base of Jim's cock to its head, "I told you that I want to taste you everywhere."

It only took a second for the meaning of his words to register with his lover whose eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and delight before he scrambled to obey the order. Sherlock chuckled quietly as Jim arranged himself on his front with his arms slung around a pillow and wriggled his arse at him in invitation.

"Patience," Sherlock reprimanded Jim with a laugh and pushed his hips down onto the mattress with one hand while he retrieved something from the drawer of his nightstand with his other one and put it next to him. He wasn't yet sure that he would need it but it was better to have everything handy just in case.

"I know that patience is a virtue," Jim drawled when Sherlock straddled his arse, "but I have never understood what use it has."

"Heightening the anticipation of what is yet to come," Sherlock offered and then leaned forward to nip at Jim's neck right over his atlas before licking down Jim's spine before following the wet trail of his tongue with his fingers in the opposite direction. No teasing words were forthcoming anymore when Jim all but melted under Sherlock's gentle ministrations until he lay completely boneless beneath him. 

Sherlock marvelled at the complete trust that Jim's relaxed state spoke of before he moved on to the next part in his plan of taking his lover completely apart. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, he moved down Jim's back until his lips were just hovering over the crease of his arse. He kneaded the plush cheeks while he nipped at the soft skin right above them before he parted them. Jim's breath hitched in his chest when Sherlock dipped his tongue into the crack of Jim's arse and licked down to just above his puckered hole. The taste of his lover was more concentrated here than on any other place of his body. Dark and earthy but not off-putting in any way.

Sherlock took his time fill the taste away in his Mind Palace and then widened the stripes of his tongue to include Jim's hole as well. He flickered the tip of his tongue around the ring of muscle teasingly until it was quivering under his touch. The skin was soft against his lips when Sherlock pressed them to it and let spit drip down onto it before he pushed just the tip of his tongue past the muscle.

"Holy fucking," Jim panted into the pillow which only urged Sherlock on more as he alternated between fucking Jim's hole with his tongue and sucking on it with his lips.

"You naughty man."There was unconcealed approval in Jim's voice when he pushed his arse up into Sherlock's face. Wordlessly begging for more and Sherlock was all too willing to oblige.

When he could comfortably press his tongue inside his lover, Sherlock decided that it was time to take the game to the next level. Blindly he tasted next to him for the bottle of lube he had retrieved beforehand and squirted some of it onto the fingers his hand. With his tongue still up his lover's arse, Sherlock pressed his slick fingers just underneath the slick hole to let Jim know what he had in store for him next.

"Oh fuck, yes."

It was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to exchange his tongue for two fingers. Jim gaped when they entered him but pushed his arse insistently back against Sherlock when he had the audacity to pause for a second. "Just move them! Fuck me like you mean it!"

The breathless command sent his blood rushing southwards and Sherlock groaned when slickness spread between his legs. It took all of his willpower to not reach down to rub himself but to instead focus on Jim. "As you wish!"

Sherlock didn't give his lover the chance to talk back when he pushed his fingers into Jim as far as they would. And then pulled them almost all the wait out again before he repeated the motion. A groan was the reward for his efforts and Sherlock smirked evilly when he changed the angle of his hand before he pushed into Jim again. It took him three tries but then the shock that ran through the body underneath him told Sherlock that he had found his target. He was careful not to hit Jim's prostate with every thrust of his hand but still made sure to nudge it every third or fourth time that he pushed inside him. By the time Sherlock was thrusting his fingers into Jim at an increasing pace, his lover was writhing against the mattress in an obvious attempt to find some kind of friction. Sherlock wondered when he was going to hump the sheets in an effort to get off.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his knees and leaned as far forward as was possible without losing his rhythm to speak closely to Jim's ear. "Can you come like this?"

Jim turned his face to meet Sherlock's searching gaze. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted while he panted for air and his hair plastered to his forehead as sweat ran down his temples.

"Yes," Jim rasped out and Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. He nudged his fingers against Jim's prostate only to watch how dark eyes widened even further when a desperate groan fell from his lips. "Do you want to come like this?"

Jim blinked up at him. Hesitance entered his eyes even while he pushed back against Sherlock's hand at the same time. Sherlock stilled the movement of his fingers when Jim didn't reply. 

"Not fair," Jim whined and wriggled underneath him to get Sherlock to move again but sagged against the mattress in defeat when the fingers remained motionless inside him.

"Do you want to come with my fingers up your arse?" Sherlock refused to blush at his own crude words when he looked Jim directly in the eyes. He certainly wouldn't mind getting his lover off this way but he had a feeling that Jim wanted something else. And if he was right then he wanted exactly what Sherlock longed for as well.

Jim worried his lower lip between his teeth as he stared up at Sherlock with something akin to nervousness mirrored in his eyes. He appeared strangely young and vulnerable like this and Sherlock was just about to take his question back when Jim finally found his voice. "No." His Adam's apple popped up and down when he swallowed. "I want to look at your face while I am buried deep inside you when I come."

Sherlock smirked, just as he had deduced. "So," he rubbed his fingers gently over Jim's prostate and watched fascinated when the breath hitched in his lover's chest, "You want to fuck me?" Sherlock couldn't hold back the bright smile any longer as it took over his whole face. "Why didn't you say so sooner?!" He carefully withdraw his fingers from Jim's hole and wiped them on the sheets.

"I wasn't sure if it was... on the menu," Jim admitted to the pillow before he turned on his back to look at Sherlock with a slightly defiant expression in his eyes. It stood in stark contrast to the debauched look he presented with his hard cock begging for attention between his legs and the pre-come that was smeared all over his stomach. Sherlock had to close his eyes for a second while his head swam with arousal at the realisation that he was responsible for Jim's state.

"Just for the record," Sherlock explained in a light tone when he straddled Jim's lap but still hovered over him, "I like being fucked."

Jim's whole body jerked at the admission and even his cock gave a little twitch. "Fuck, Sherlock!"

"That's the plan!"

Jim grabbed Sherlock's thighs but didn't try to push him down onto his cock. Instead he only stared at him in a mixture of happy disbelief and awe. The part of Sherlock that had been afraid of being laughed at for enjoying penetrative sex suffered a quick death at Jim's obvious want for him.

Sherlock closed his hand around the hard cock of his lover and held it steady as he sank down onto it. The stretch was different from how Sherlock remembered it. Not unpleasant though. Right the opposite in fact. He just didn't think that he had ever felt so... full before.

Jim's fingers dug into his thighs in an obvious request for him to move and Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. He let himself fall forward until his chest was pressed flush against Jim's and then started to move his hips. Slowly at first but then increasingly faster when Jim started to push up into him and their rhythm became more desperate with every passing second. Sherlock was panting against Jim's lips. Their breath mingling with every harsh exhale while they moved together. Their bodies as close as was humanly possible and yet... it wasn't enough. At least not for Sherlock. Jim's cock was just hitting the right places inside him to keep him hovering on the edge but it wasn't enough to push him over it. Sherlock needed something else, something more. He needed...

"Oh yes!" Sherlock groaned when Jim wriggled his hand between their bodies and pressed two fingers against his clit. He didn't move them but only kept them there to add extra stimulation for every time that Sherlock slammed down onto him. It was enough. More than enough. Almost too much and yet exactly what he needed.

Sherlock gripped at Jim's hair and brought their mouths together in a bruising kiss when the first sparks of pleasure shot through him and soon lit a whole firework inside him. "Fuck! Jim, fuck!"

Sherlock wasn't sure himself if he meant it as a demand or if he was simply cursing aloud while his whole body shook with the force of his orgasm. He could only hold on to Jim as he rode the waves of his high, unable to move a single muscle.

A groan that wasn't his own echoed right next to his ear and Jim thrust up into him two more times before he stilled completely. Sherlock's body shook when another wave of pure pleasure shot through him as he felt Jim's cock pulse inside him. Arms came up around his back and held him close against the warm body underneath him and they trembled through the aftershocks together. They remained pressed together even after their trembling had subsided and only left a satisfied exhaustion in its wake.

Sherlock wouldn't have minded to fall asleep like this but when Jim's cock started to slip out of him, he rolled off his lover with a sigh.

"How are you?" Jim asked as he rolled onto his side and pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock rolled onto his side to meet Jim's lips in a brief kiss and brought their foreheads together when he met his lover's eyes. The question was easy to answer. "Satisfied, tired, thirsty and," Sherlock grimaced as Jim's come trickled out of him, "Sticky. You?"

"About the same." Jim yawned but then sat up and climbed out of bed. "A brief shower, some water and then off to sleep?"

Sherlock groaned at the prospect of getting up but took Jim's offered hand and let his lover pull him to his feet. They took turns in the shower and brushed their teeth mechanically, gulping down water directly from the tap afterwards and stumbled back to bed in under fifteen minutes. Neither of them commented on the ruined sheets as they fell into bed together and pulled the covers over them. The stains wouldn't kill them overnight.

Sherlock blinked sleepily when Jim shifted closer to him until his head rested in the crook of Sherlock's arm and his nose was pressed to his bare chest. "So you like to cuddle," Sherlock observed and carded his hands through Jim's hair even when his eyes already started to fall shut.

"With you," came the muffled reply from Jim.

Sherlock's lips curved up into a smile just before exhaustion overtook him and he sank down in a much needed sleep with Jim still in his arms.


	15. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is almost over. After this chapter, there will only be a short epilogue left to be posted next week. Thanks for your support and see you all next week. :)

### The Morning After

Sherlock woke up alone. He frowned, his mind still sluggish from sleep as he tried to remember why this felt like such a strange occurrence. It wasn't like he was in the habit of sharing his bed with anyone after all and... Right, Jim!

Sherlock shook his head at himself with a reprimanding smile at the slowness of his mind when the memories of yesterday night came back to him. It shouldn't be possible for him to forget the fantastic sex with Jim for even a second. He truly needed to work on his Mind Palace to store these memories closer to the surface. 

"Are you sure that it won't distract you if the recollection of the texture of Jim's cock is only the blink of an eye away?"

Sherlock sighed in resignation at the logical argument. It would only lead to uncomfortable questions if he recalled the exact expression of Jim's face when his orgasm hit him while working at a crime scene. Seeing as Sherlock highly doubted that he would be able to hide his body's reaction to such a stimulation completely. The officers of Scotland Yard would have a field day if he got aroused around a dead body. Sherlock chuckled when he imagined the looks on their faces but then grimaced when he sat up and his thighs gave a painful twinge in protest. It had been a long time since he had indulged in such activities.

"You mean, it has been a long time since you rode the cock of someone?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the nasty question that his own mind deemed fit to throw at him. A decade ago he would have blushed in shame at the reminder of having sex in this position. Today though the heat that rose up in his cheeks originated from a completely different place as his flesh throbbed in recalled pleasure at the memory. Sherlock was past the point at which he cared what others would have to say about him having penetrative sex with his lover. It certainly didn't make him less of a man to use his body's full potential in order to reach maximum pleasure. Besides, it was no one else's business except his own and his lover's what they got up to in bed - or anywhere else.

The thought brought him back to Jim's absence and Sherlock frowned when he stumbled out of the bed to look for his lover. He must have been more tired than he had realised if he hadn't noticed when Jim had slipped out of bed approximately an hour ago. At least judging from the cold spot on the mattress next to him and from how the covers had been slung around him.

Sherlock didn't bother with any clothes as he wandered through the flat in his search of Jim. His first stop was the bathroom. And while it lay deserted, Sherlock still slipped inside to relieve himself before he wandered into the kitchen. Somehow he had expected to find a freshly brewed cup of tea waiting for him on the counter and for Jim to leer at him from a place at the table - nothing of the sort.

Sherlock felt a twinge of unease in the pit of his stomach when his eyes took in the usual chaos in the kitchen. The kettle was exactly where Jim had put it yesterday evening after he had brewed tea to warm them up and the mugs hadn't been moved from their spots at the sink. Even a child could have drawn the correct conclusion from the obvious evidence. Jim hadn't made tea after he had gotten up in the morning. In fact, he hadn't touched anything in the kitchen at all as far as Sherlock could see.

The niggling unease in the back of his mind grew more insistent but Sherlock managed to push it aside until he made his way into the living-room and found it completely deserted. No sign of Jim anywhere. He hadn't even sat on the couch or one of the armchairs this morning as far as Sherlock could tell.

A sudden chill ran down his spine and Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown from where it was thrown over the armchair and tied it snug around his frame. He pushed the image of Jim kneeling in front of said armchair - while he drove Sherlock completely crazy with lust - out of his mind and forced himself to focus. Jim wasn't in this part of the flat nor had he lingered in any part of it after getting up. Of course that still left the possibility that his lover had climbed the stairs to the second bedroom but Sherlock was doubtful about it. There was nothing up there that would be of any interest to Jim. Nevertheless, Sherlock still made his way up the stairs. Hesitance held him back for a second before he rolled his eyes at himself and pushed the door to the bedroom open. It wasn't like it belonged to anyone but Sherlock now.

Dust and stale air greeted him when the door swung open. There was no need to even enter the room to check for Jim. The undisturbed layers of dust stated clearly that no one had been in this room since Mrs. Hudson had inspected it after John had left. Sherlock hadn't seen the necessity to go up to it after his landlady had assured him that the room was perfectly fine.

"Liar, you were too raw and hurt from John's betrayal that you couldn't bear to enter the space where he had lived for so long."

Sherlock sighed quietly at the brutal honesty of his own mind even while he had to admit to the truth of the assessment. First he hadn't dared to come up here but then... he had simply forgotten all about it. It wasn't like he needed the extra bedroom although he might consider to turn it into a home office or a lab. At the very least he could use it as a storage room. Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly over the single bed and the empty wardrobe. Strange how this room didn't hold any tangible evidence of John's existence anymore. If Sherlock didn't know better he could have easily come to the conclusion that his former flatmate had never even set food in this room. His lips turned up into a small smile when the realisation didn't leave any lingering feelings behind. There was neither pain nor bitterness or anger at the absence of John in his life. Just another chapter in his life that was over.

Sherlock closed the door carefully behind himself and made his way back into the living-room. This time he looked more closely when he inspected the room and finally noticed something that he had missed before. Or rather he noticed the absence of something. Jim's clothes weren't there anymore. Sherlock could remember clearly that his lover had taken them off in here and there was no trace of either his shirt nor his trousers anymore. Not even a single sock was dangling over the armchair. Sherlock's gaze flickered to the coat rack next to the door although he already knew what he was going to see. Jim's jacket was gone as were his shoes.

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed and forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly before the panic could overtake him. Yes, Jim had left the flat but that didn't necessarily have to mean anything. Maybe he had needed to go to a meeting. Even criminal masterminds had to be on time for such things right?!

"Then why didn't he leave you a message?"

Sherlock blinked when the provoking question only reminded him that he hadn't even checked his phone yet. It would be more than a little embarrassing if he got himself to the verge of panic without any reason at all. It took some searching before Sherlock finally managed to locate his phone - on the mantelpiece - and then only to see that the battery had died down over night. Cursing quietly, Sherlock found his charger on the couch and glared impatiently at his phone when it took a second to even start recharging. The next minute went by awfully slowly while Sherlock went through the motions of powering up his phone and entering his password only to have to wait another ten seconds until the start screen came on.

No new messages!

Sherlock stared at the phone in disbelief. That couldn't be right. Certainly Jim had left him some clue as to why he had left after their night together. Sherlock checked the internet connection and even started his phone again but the outcome remained the same. No message from Jim. Not even an email or a teasing post to his blog, Sherlock realised after he had checked both. So that meant... what did it mean?

Sherlock sank down on the couch with his phone still in hand as he stared unseeingly at the opposite wall. His mind was racing while it tried to come up with an explanation for Jim's unexpected departure. Only two explanations withstood closer inspection, none of which Sherlock liked to entertain in the first place but there was no way to ignore the truth when it was screaming in your face. Either Jim regretted last night or it had all been a game for him and he had lied to Sherlock the whole time.

A choked sound got stuck in Sherlock's throat but he refused to give in to the need to let it out. He wasn't going to cry. No matter how desperately his eyes were burning or how painfully his heart was clenching in his chest, Sherlock wouldn't give into this weakness. There was no use to it either. Tears wouldn't change neither past, present nor future. They were simply annoying and evidence of his own miscalculation. Certainly if Sherlock had taken a second to use his brain and analyze Jim's motives he would have realised that it was impossible for the criminal mastermind to return his feelings.

"And then what?"

The question took Sherlock off guard for a moment until he answered it with a bitter laugh. Right, if he had figured out that Jim was still lying to him then he would have taken the drugs and last night would have never happened. It wasn't a nice thought. Sherlock wouldn't want to exchange last night for anything but obviously Jim was of a different mind. Maybe it hadn't been a case of playing games but he had simply woken up next to Sherlock and decided that he didn't want him. Somehow the idea hurt even worse than considering that Jim had only played him. Because if Jim had played him then Sherlock couldn't have done anything to change his mind about staying with him. But if Jim had regretted having sex with him afterwards then that meant that he had truly wanted him at some point only to have his mind changed by... something.

Sherlock drew his feet up on the couch and wrapped his arms around his legs as he shivered in the chilly air of the living-room. He should get up and put some clothes on. Maybe make some tea and toast and then take another shower to get rid of the lingering scent of Jim that still clung to him. While he was at it, Sherlock could also change the sheets and wash them and...

Sherlock pressed his forehead against his knees and took a shaking breath when the tasks that he should perform started to pile up before him. Right now even finding the strength to get up was too much. A single tear slid out of the corner of Sherlock's eye and dripped onto his bare thigh where his dressing gown had parted. He ignored it. Just like he ignored the next tear and the one after that as his resolve to stay strong was washed away by despair. Sherlock didn't know how long he had been sitting on the couch like that when the front door downstairs opened and shut. He frowned but only sat up with a start when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Sherlock sat bolt upright and barely found the time to wipe his face with his sleeve and adjust his dressing gown before the door to the flat was pushed open.

"Some help would be appreciated," Jim called out as he kicked the door shut with his foot. It didn't need a genius to deduce why he didn't use his hands as they were busy carrying three shopping bags. Sherlock pinched himself and got to his feet slowly and watched as Jim stumbled his way into the living-room. "You went grocery shopping."

"Yes and it was as tedious as I remembered it to be with all these ordinary people around and this annoying music playing the whole time."

"Why did you do it then?" Sherlock still couldn't get his legs to move towards his lover who was struggling with freeing his hands from the shopping bags.

"Believe me, it wasn't my original plan." Jim sighed in relief when he put one of the bags down in the middle of the living-room. "But after your dear brother had driven me around town for about an hour I decided that it would only be fair if he let me run some errands before he let me out at Baker Street again."

Sherlock blinked. "My brother?"

"Mycroft Holmes, the British Government with a block of ice in place of a heart, rings any bells?" Jim asked teasingly and sent a wicked grin Sherlock's way when he finally straightened up - the grocery bags disposed on the floor.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. More in disbelief than in reply to Jim's question. "How... Why...?" He didn't know where to start. Thoughts were tumbling through his head like stones in a landslide and it was impossible to hold onto any of them.

The grin vanished from Jim's face and was replaced by a more serious expression as he crossed over to where Sherlock stood in front of the couch. Sherlock knew that Jim wouldn't miss that he had cried - evidence was written all over his face - but he still didn't avert his gaze when his lover looked searchingly up at him. "What happened?"

Sherlock barely managed to suppress a sob when Jim's cool hand stroked over his cheek and then stayed there in a quiet gesture of comfort. He felt like he was on a rollercoaster but had lost sight if it was going up or down.

"This morning when I woke up and you... Nevermind!" Sherlock bit down on his tongue and cringed inwardly at how stupid he sounded. Obviously he had simply overreacted. There was no need to make the situation even worse by dwelling on it.

Jim had other plans though. Understanding widened his eyes. "You woke up and I was gone without having left a message."

Sherlock shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. "It happens."

"No," Jim caressed Sherlock's cheek with a strange look in his eyes, "It shouldn't happen after how I treated you the last couple of weeks. And," he added with more force, "It also wouldn't have happened if your damn brother hadn't kidnapped me when I just wanted to drop by Speedy's."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. Jim's statement contained so many information that it was hard to decide on which one to focus. His obvious regret for how he had treated Sherlock and the implied promise that it wouldn't happen again. Maybe he had only wanted to buy a coffee at Speedy's but judging by the amount of groceries he had bought from Tesco's it was more likely to assume that he had intended to buy them both breakfast. Perhaps that was only wishful thinking on Sherlock's part but he would take the risk. And then about Mycroft...

"My brother kidnapped you?!" Sherlock didn't doubt that Mycroft would attempt to kidnap Jim but he was more surprised that he had succeeded.

Heat rose up high in Jim's face. "His sudden emergence took me by surprise. I deemed it best to just get the meeting over with. If I had known that it would take so long..." Jim sighed and then smiled crookedly. "At least I now know that I still have to make amendments to you."

"No." Sherlock placed his hand on top of Jim's where it still rested on his cheek. "I don't want to always be reminded of that time."

Jim frowned. "You will be reminded of it anyway whenever you find reason not to trust me."

"But I trust you!"

A pained expression crossed Jim's face. "Not in that, you don't."

Sherlock sighed. He couldn't really argue with that when he had jumped to the worst conclusions this morning when Jim had left without so much as a note. It hadn't even occurred to him that there might be a harmless explanation for everything but still: "I don't want these doubts to always be between us but I don't know how to put a stop to them." The frustration was evident in Sherlock's voice and he looked helplessly at Jim.

His lover worried his lower lip between his teeth while he seemed to seriously consider Sherlock's words until a triumphant look lit up his whole face. "Time and proximity."

Sherlock frowned at the cryptic statement but closed his arm around Jim's back when he bridged the last inch between them. Jim had to lean his head back slightly to meet Sherlock's gaze but he didn't seem to mind. "It's actually extremely simple," he explained his logic to Sherlock, "You need time to fully accept that this is neither a game nor a brief affair to me and proximity will speed the process up. You just can't distrust me when you are always around me." The last part was delivered with a charming smile and Sherlock couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"I still don't see how you intend for us to spend more time together in person," Sherlock admitted when his amusement faded away. "Are you suggesting we go on a holiday together?" Sherlock couldn't really imagine them sunbathing on the beach or hiking through mountains. They would either both die of sheer boredom or start on a killing spree. At least Jim would enjoy the latter.

"Don't be boring." Jim rolled his eyes at him. "Neither one of us enjoys typical holidays and one that we would both enjoy wouldn't do anything to restore your trust in me." Jim winked at Sherlock playfully but then hesitated a second before he carried on. "I thought about a more... permanent solution."

"Which is?" 

"We move in together."

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief and the content smile fell from Jim's face. "You don't want to."

It wasn't a question and yet Sherlock still shook his head. "That's not it."

"Then what is it? What does speak against us moving in together?" Bewilderment and hurt were written all over Jim's face and this was enough to stop Sherlock from pointing out all the obvious reasons as to why this might not be a good idea. They both knew how recent the change in their relationship was and that most people didn't move in together so fast. No need to point these out to Jim.

Sherlock turned the hand on his cheek until he could intertwine their fingers and then led Jim to the couch. His lover sat down with a defiant expression on his face and Sherlock sighed quietly. Jim was just as stubborn as he was. "Have you forgot the tiny fact that I work for the police and you are a wanted criminal?"

"And?" 

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock nudged Jim's foot with his own. "People on both sides of the law will be at our throats if word gets out that we live together."

"Not if they don't know about it." Jim grinned but rolled his eyes when Sherlock just kept staring at him blankly. "No one but my closest confidantes even know what I look like and even they aren't close enough to know where I live. The public has never seen my face and most people that work in law enforcement don't even know that I exist. Some have heard of Moriarty but I wouldn't be so obvious as to use this name. So the risk of exposure is minimal for us."

Jim made a convincing argument, Sherlock had to give him that but there were still some flaws to his plan. "What about people that know your face? Molly and Mrs. Hudson for example?"

Sherlock didn't even deem it necessary to bring up Mycroft in their conversation. If Jim had believed that his brother was a risk to his plan then he would have already mentioned him. Besides, Mycroft had told Sherlock that he was fine with his relationship with Jim as long as the consulting criminal didn't wreck havoc in England. Jim had probably received a similar speech today.

"Please," Jim rolled his eyes at him, "Your landlady believes that I am a sweet guy who is completely smitten with you."

"True," Sherlock grinned cheekily, "But she also knows that you blew up her wall."

"You told her?!" Disbelief radiated off Jim in waves but Sherlock only shrugged. "I didn't want to lie to her. I am supposed to tell you that you owe her money for the repairs."

Jim looked like a fish as he moved his mouth but without any sound leaving it. Sherlock couldn't remember any other time when his lover had been struck speechless. Though the state didn't last long. "You told your landlady that you are involved with the leader of a criminal organisation and her only reaction was to ask for repair money?" When Sherlock only nodded at that, Jim shook his head in fascination. "Remarkable."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson isn't your typical old lady." Sherlock couldn't keep the pride out of his voice at the thought of his landlady. Certainly London would fall without her at Baker Street.

"You just disproved yourself that Mrs. Hudson would be a hurdle to our moving in together," Jim pointed out with a snicker after a second. "Now let's move on to dear Molly." Jim tapped against his upper lip with his finger while he regarded Sherlock calmly. "Molly knows what I look like so we might have to hide the fact that I live here if she disapproves of our relationship."

"She doesn't." Sherlock sighed quietly when Jim only raised an eyebrow at him in question. Apparently Sherlock hadn't thought this argument through or he had sabotaged himself because he hadn't wanted to win it in the first place. "Actually Molly encouraged me to pursue a relationship with you." And Sherlock still needed to inform her of the recent developments. Maybe a little chat over a nice, fresh body was in order.

"You went to Molly for relationship advice." Jim kept a straight face but for the telling gleam in his eyes. "My my, I am honoured." A sole giggle fell from Jim's lips before he caught himself. "So, she only poses a danger if she convinces you to watch Glee."

Sherlock snorted. "Seems like the series has left you with a trauma." He almost admitted that there wasn't anything that spoke against them moving in together when he remembered something. "Molly is engaged to DI Lestrade."

The laughter vanished from Jim's face. "Now, that's a problem." Jim furrowed his brow in thought. "The easiest solution would be for them to break up with each other. I could certainly arrange for..."

"No!" Sherlock gave Jim's hand a hard shake and met his lover's surprised look with a glare. "You are not going to break them up. They are both happier than ever especially now that they are going to be parents."

The protest that had formed on Jim's lips died away as a soft look entered his eyes. "Molly is pregnant?"

"Yes, she is only about two months along but I am certain that everything will go well."

The gentle smile that turned up Jim's lips was almost wistful. "I am truly happy for her. She always wanted to be a mother and I am sure she will be a good one."

Sherlock opened his mouth to inquire about the strange expression on Jim's face but his lover answered the question before Sherlock could voice it. "No, I don't want to have children but there was a time when I wondered what could have been if I was... different."

Sherlock squeezed Jim's hand in quiet understand. He better than most people knew how easy it was to start down this path and how hard it could be to accept that certain things were impossible to change. They sat in silent consideration for some time until Jim cleared his throat and visible shook off whatever had bothered him. "So, we are not going to break them up but what else can we do? I doubt that the good DI takes bribes or you wouldn't work with him."

"No, he doesn't but," Sherlock frowned slightly and then nodded, "I could ask Molly to put in a good word for us. I think if they can't connect any crimes to you then Lestrade should be fine with it." The DI would probably still complain and sigh about the requests that were made of him these days but Sherlock was certain that he would come around. Lestrade preferred Sherlock sober and in a relationship with a criminal instead of lonely and high as a kite. And Molly was sure to convince him to turn two blind eyes to Jim's job.

"So," Jim's voice brought Sherlock back to the present and their conversation. "There is actually nothing that speaks against us moving in together, right?"

Jim shifted anxiously on the couch and Sherlock finally looked closely enough to read the nervousness and insecurity in his lover's body language. God, but he was slow today. No matter how much bravado Jim displayed it was still fairly obvious that the conversation had made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he wasn't so sure anymore that Sherlock even wanted to move in with him. And all because Sherlock had felt the need to argue with him because the request had taken him by surprise. 

"No, nothing's going to stop us." Sherlock watched in fascination when Jim's complete face lit up and he clapped his hands together like a boy that had been promised a toy.

"Splendid!" Jim jumped to his feet and his eyes gleamed with manic energy. "I will store the groceries away, make a few calls to arrange my move, prepare us a whole Irish Breakfast and then we can spend the rest of the day in bed. Deal?!"

Sherlock glanced down at Jim's outstretched hand and then back up to see pure happiness written in every line of his face. He knew that he would accept more than a simple meal and a day of fantastic sex if he took Jim's hand. It would be a word of consent to a lifetime filled with danger, mayhem, murder and love. There was no need to think twice about such an offer.  
Sherlock took Jim's hand without hesitance. "Yes."


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter of this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. =)
> 
> **Important** : If you can't get enough of Jim and Sherlock though, I have good news. I have outlined - and even partly written - a few short stories that will take place in this universe. The stories will be set between the last chapter and the epilogue to show snippets of Sherlock's and Jim's first year of living together as a couple. They will be posted as part of a series with LMLY being the first part of it. =D
> 
> I can't promise to post the stories of the series as regularly as I posted the chapters of this story but I'm aiming for posting one story a month. And when I post, I'll post on a Friday. That I can promise. =)

### Epilogue

~One year later ~

Sherlock took the steps two at a time as he ran up the stairs. His lungs ached in protest when he gasped in large amounts of air. He didn't pause on the next landing but continued at the same brutal pace until he finally reached the top. The door opened at his impatient push and Sherlock all but stumbled outside. A cold breeze stroked his heated skin and a shiver ran through Sherlock's body at the contrast in temperature. Still he didn't pause but instead marched across the rooftop of Bart's towards the edge where Jim was supposed to be waiting for him.

"I got your message," Sherlock called out to his lover and congratulated himself on the steadiness of his voice. It wasn't especially easy to remain calm while your lover was sitting so close to edge on a rooftop. If only he would lean back a little further, Jim would lose his balance and fall down all eleven storeys. There would be nothing left of him expect for a broken body. Sherlock pushed the horrible image out of his mind but still breathed a sigh of relief when Jim got up from his place on the edge and moved closer to him.

"Took you long enough." Jim's eyes flickered searchingly over him and Sherlock only crossed his arms over his chest.

"If you hadn't written it on the mirror with your fingers so that I would only see it after taking a hot shower it wouldn't have taken so long. You can be glad that I took one at all or you would still be waiting here."

A smirk tucked at Jim's lips when he stepped up to Sherlock until their chests were only an inch away from touching. "I knew that you would take one after venturing down into the sewers to search for the ring."

"How could you possible... Jim!" Sherlock glared at his lover. "You promised that you wouldn't get involved in any crimes that would fall into Lestrade's jurisdiction."

"No, I only promised that I wouldn't commit any crimes that could be traced back to me. Considering that not even you assumed that I was involved I say that I kept that promise." Jim stroked a hand down Sherlock's chest and directed his most charming smile at him. "And you have to admit that you loved the case."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "You got me but please be careful or even Lestrade will get suspicious."

"And accuse the godfather of his beloved daughter of working together with a criminal? I think not." Jim pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips and then stepped away. "I won't overdo it though, I promise."

"Fine." Sherlock nodded his acceptance and then watched Jim carefully when he moved behind the entrance to the stairways only to reappear with a cool box.

"Don't look so suspicious," Jim scolded him playfully and made his way back to the edge of the rooftop.

"I can't help it," Sherlock returned and followed his lover to the edge. "The possibilities of what could be in this cool box are sheer endless when it comes to you. I just think of that one time with the heart..."

"Oh please," Jim scoffed in mock annoyance, "You loved it and I can't change that I am a hopeless romantic."

Sherlock laughed quietly. He couldn't argue with that. Jim truly was a romantic, just an unusual one at that. Flowers, candle light dinners and surprise city trips certainly weren't his idea of a romantic gesture. Most people would probably go so far as to say that his idea of romance was morbid but thankfully Sherlock wasn't most people. A collection of rare, lethal poisons or some interesting body parts didn't send him running for the hills but screaming with joy. Still, Jim's track record of romantic gestures doubled the tension when Jim finally opened the cool box and retrieved... a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Sherlock stared at the items in surprise and Jim laughed at the expression on his face. "What, did you expect severed thumbs?" He giggled and held the glasses out for Sherlock to take. "Hold these and I will open the bottle."

Sherlock watched in stunned silence while Jim removed the agraffe and then turned the opening of the bottle in the direction of the edge and shook it until the cork shot out and down into the streets. Champagne gushed out of the bottle and over Jim's hands.

"And here I thought the champagne was meant for us."

Jim rolled his eyes at him and filled the glasses more forcefully than necessary, showering Sherlock's hands with the sparkling liquid in the process. "It's a sacrifice to the gods."

"Sure," Sherlock handed one glass to Jim and winked at him. "Admit it, you just brought the bottle up here to shoot the cork over the edge of the rooftop."

"It was certainly a bonus but I actually came here for this." Sherlock followed the line of Jim's outstretched arm and gasped in surprise when he saw what his lover meant. The sun was just setting over London and the sky was awash with red and golden colours. It was magnificent. While Sherlock had lived in London for almost half his life he had never watched the sunset like this. He had never cared enough to look but now with Jim at his side, it seemed to be worth his attention.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jim stood so close that their arms were brushing while he watched the colourful sky with Sherlock. "You could almost imagine that London was burning."

"Of course, that's what you are seeing." Sherlock winked at Jim when they clinked their glasses. Their kisses later that night tasted of champagne and freedom and held the promise of many more years to come.


End file.
